


A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]

by berlynn_wohl



Category: SCP Foundation, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anal Sex, Case Fic, Dark, First Time, Horror, Laboratories, M/M, Medical Procedures, Oral Sex, Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:27:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which John and Sherlock work for the SCP Foundation. (There is some helpful information about this in the introduction.) </p><p>***Please be advised that this fic features dark and gruesome content throughout.***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR’S NOTES:**

1\. This story is an AU that places John and Sherlock in the world of the SCP Foundation, a fictional collection of objects, humans, and extraterrestrial/extradimensional beings deemed a threat to global security or human normalcy. The Foundation originated on 4chan’s /x/ board, where people would dig up pictures of weird things and write stories explaining what they were. Eventually the concept got [its own wiki](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/about-the-scp-foundation). You need not possess any prior knowledge of the Foundation before reading this story, but it might be helpful to visit a few pages there, to become familiar with the format and themes. (Here are some of my favourite entries, none of which are mentioned in this fic. Some are spooky, some are funny, and some are both: [216](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-216), [381](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-381), [426](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-426), [1981](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1981), [294](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-294), [361](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-361), [583](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-583), [147](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-147), [586](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-586), [597](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-597), [1370](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1370), [1839](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1839), [1883](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1883), and [006-J](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-006-j).) Be warned that the SCP wiki has suction powers rivaled only by TV Tropes. Try to remember to actually come back and read this fic after browsing the wiki!

2\. I tried to explain things that needed explaining, but also deliberately left things to the reader’s imagination. (Which is the way the SCP wiki itself is written.)  Some events/discoveries described  on the wiki have been dramatised in this fic. If you go to read the entire wiki entry for an SCP object as soon as it is mentioned, you might be spoiled for something that occurs in the story. So what I did was, I embedded “easter egg” links to objects mentioned in passing, so you can get more info about them if you wish. But if you see something mentioned for the first time and there is no embedded link, you can just continue to read the fic, and you’ll learn all you need to know about the object.

3\. There are many canonical secure facilities run by the Foundation, and each one tends to specialise in particular types of objects, or is located in a specific area to house an immovable object. I didn’t want to limit the story based on which items are housed in which facilities, so I made up a facility of an ambiguous nature and location, U-62, and moved any objects there that I desired, for story purposes.

 

 

**ONE**

 

John did not like seeing the small Portable Containment Units. Not that he enjoyed seeing the _big_ Portable Containment Units, being pushed down the tracks in the corridors whilst something unhappy banged around inside. But typically, when he saw a small PCU, it was being handed over to him and made his responsibility, and it was likely to contain a tiny, pitiful creature, sometimes resembling a human infant.                                                                

The staff member carrying the PCU wore a badge that said **1/019**. That meant, presumably, that the creature inside was an SCP-019-2. “I thought Martinsson was assigned to Nineteen,” John said.

“He wanted your insight,” said 1/019, and sauntered backwards toward the exit, so that he could chuckle at John’s tired expression. “You always look bored to tears, Doctor Watson. Come on, chin up. It’s a Keter! It’s exciting!” He slipped through the exit, and the door clicked shut behind him.

“It’s a _dead_ Keter,” John muttered.

The tag on the PCU instructed him to refer to addendum SCP-019-2-A. John pulled out his tablet, swiped the screen with one finger to unlock it, and accessed the file. The addendum read: _Memo to Doctor Watson –_ _Specimens appear to be growing resistant to incineration. First resistant specimen was destroyed with firearm. SCP-019 was tilted until second resistant specimen was produced; contained within.  
_

John pressed his thumb to the security panel on the PCU, and when he heard the click, he unlatched the lid. He waved away the puff of dry ice and peered inside.

This particular specimen bore a cursory resemblance to the photograph in the file. It was about seventeen centimetres long, pink-fleshed, and humanoid, with spindly limbs, over-large copper eyes and leathery little wings. It had sustained a .22-caliber gunshot wound to the cranium. Presumably the first “resistant” specimen had been disintegrated by a shotgun blast. They’d been more careful with this deliberately-provoked creature.

Before proceeding with the necropsy, John palpated the little being, searched for a pulse, and placed a mirror beneath its nostrils, carefully checking for any remaining sign of life. When dealing with such bizarre lifeforms, John always wanted to be certain (to the best of his ability) that whatever he was about to cut up was really, actually, dead. Once he was satisfied, he made the standard Y-incision, examined the organs, collected tissue and fluid samples, and made notes. The samples and notes he sent off for further analysis, then replaced the specimen in the PCU and summoned 1/109 to store it. He compared his notes to the ones that others had made during the necropsies of previous comparable specimens, and found no significant differences. The results of the tissue analysis might turn something up, but for now, John could find no reason why the new specimens were not being properly taken care of by the incinerator installed in SCP-019’s chamber.

He hoped he would not be tasked with any deeper investigation; he loathed putting in the requests for old specimens to be taken out of storage. It was a reminder that while the Foundation was doing its very best, the best was not always good enough, and objects which everyone thought had been sufficiently contained often turned out to be more resilient, or intelligent, than originally thought.

John did not bring this subject up when he and Mike ate their lunch in the cafeteria, but Mike could read it on his face. “It’s not the [Corrosive Snail](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-075) again, is it? I know how upset you were about what it did to your shoes.”

“That little bastard is still safely contained, so far as I’m aware. No, this was the Monster Pot. It’s spitting out fire-resistant critters now.”

“Aw, that’s not cricket,” was Mike’s mild reply. He always maintained a gregarious demeanor, much to John’s bafflement. Nothing surprised or fazed him. Perhaps it was his shatterproof trust in the competency of the Foundation and its staff. But today his reaction was particularly soft, and it soon became apparent why. He had some juicy news that he couldn’t wait a moment longer to reveal. “You must have heard about that new bloke. What he does is right up your street. Have they introduced you yet?”

John made a noncommittal noise.

“Hired right into Oh Twenty-Three, he was, as an Advisor.”

That got John’s attention. “What does he do, that’s right up my street, as you say?”

“Well, he’s not specifically medical branch, but he’s already handled some of the most incorrigible Keters. He’s got some sort of weird insight thing. I don’t know how to explain it. But the first time we met, he told me everything there is to know about me, just by looking at me. The Administrators are hoping he can do the same with Keters, not only figure out what they are and what they do, but predict their behaviour, as well.  Anyway, I’m not cleared to know precisely where he’s located, but his name is Sherlock Holmes. You can look him up.”

Indeed John could. He was a member of the O-23 task force, himself; a motley crew of researchers and agents who somehow always managed to escape perilous situations unscathed. _When all else fails, send in O-23_ , was the saying. Cutting open monsters whose existence threatened global security was his day job.

 

Later that afternoon, a pale, lanky man with a grim expression confronted John on his way to SCP-019’s containment chamber. Their paths converged at a T-junction, and when John turned the corner, the man said, “Doctor Watson.”

John’s pace faltered. “Er, yes. Have we met?” John held out his hand, but the man ignored it.

“No, but there’s only one object down this corridor that could possibly be of interest to an Oh Twenty-Three.” The man nodded to indicate John’s badge, upon which one could clearly read his clearances.

“You’re from London as well,” John said, thinking, _Why didn’t Mike tell me about **this** bloke?_ He was always glad to have a fellow Englishman around.

“Yes, well-spotted,” the man said flatly. “Is the cafeteria’s pasta any good, Doctor Watson?”

“It’s better than a swift kick, I suppose. Had some today.”

“I know. And vinaigrette on your salad.”

John was non-plussed. “No, I didn’t have salad today at all.”

The man grabbed John by the wrist, examining the sleeve of his lab coat, which bore two subtle smudges. “Indeed not. But you did yesterday. Oh, and by the way: Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John pulled his arm from the man’s grasp. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re obviously a military man who was invalided home after an injury sustained in a sunny climate. So which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?” He was still standing close enough that John could feel his body heat.

“You ought to have seen that in my file, since you’ve obviously read it,” John said, and resumed his walk down the corridor.

“I haven’t,” the man said; there was just a dusting of smugness sprinkled on top of those two words.

“Then how did you…Ah. You must be Doctor Holmes. I’ve heard about you.”

“ _Mister_ Holmes.”

John wanted to say, _Well then, **Mister** Holmes, I don’t appreciate the way your eyes are boring into my soul_. But he refrained, instead saying, “Your little party trick is very charming, but I really must move along.” He pointed at the door before which they stood. “I’m scheduled to observe Nineteen, here.”

“As am I.” Sherlock smiled a smile of indeterminate sincerity. He gestured to John to enter first.

“Age before beauty, eh,” John muttered as he pressed his thumb to the panel on the wall. Sherlock said nothing in reply, and followed John into the observation chamber as the door swung open.

The observation chamber was a four-metre square room adjacent to the containment chamber, a concrete cube of similar size. There was one opening between the rooms: a reinforced steel door through which maintenance workers or Class D personnel could pass in order to retrieve detritus or interact with the object inside. Toward the top of that door was an additional hatch which enabled the use of a ranged weapon against anything contained inside whilst providing the target minimal means of escape. The door and the hatch were both closed, at the moment. Once John and Sherlock were inside, and the exterior door safely closed behind them, they were greeted by a doctor and an armed guard. A young man in a bright orange jumpsuit also stood by, saying nothing. His badge read **D-77789**.

John knew the doctor well: Martinsson, a veteran of the Department of Humanoid Biology and Medicine who specialised in Keters. They saw a lot of each other, though John had no particular affinity for him, as a colleague or as a fellow human being. 

“Ah, thank you for joining us. As I mentioned earlier, we’ve decided to provoke a manifestation, so that you can see a live demonstration of the specimen’s resilience. Might give you some additional clues.”

“I think we’ve learned everything we need to know from the necropsy,” John said. “The epithelial cells showed—”

Martinsson cleared his throat. “I was speaking more in regards to Sherlock’s skill set.” He pushed the intercom button. “Barton, can I have you increase the temperature to twenty-four degrees Celsius, as quickly as is possible, please.”

The four staff members turned to watch the monitor, which displayed the inside of the containment chamber: a Greek vase, about one metre in height, sat solitary on a metal grate. D-77789 stayed where he was and continued to look straight ahead at the wall.

Minutes went by with no change. “Odd,” said Martinsson. “The temperature change usually provokes it.” He turned to D-77789 and said, “You will need to shift the vase six inches.” Then he pushed the intercom and said, “Barton, unlock the door. We have a Class D entering the containment chamber.”

After hearing the massive deadbolt glide open and click, Martinsson nodded at the hesitant man to get a move on. With a shaking hand, D-77789 turned the door handle and stepped inside. As soon as he was in, the door swung shut and the deadbolt slid home automatically.

The Staff watched the monitor as D-77789 leaned over and grabbed the vase by the mouth to push it along the metal grate. Quick as a flash, a creature sprung forth from it, smacking the Class D in the face and knocking him over. Like its predecessor, whom John had examined, it had wings, and bounced round the chamber erratically, pausing only to use its teeth and claws to attack D-77789. The creature’s face looked less human than its predecessor, more bat-like, with a pug nose. Its limbs were also much longer, disproportionately so.

“Initiate incineration,” Martinsson said into the intercom.

The monitor went white as flames shot up through the grate and engulfed the chamber. When the blast was over, there was no trace of D-77789 – perhaps with some effort a bone fragment might be discerned – but the creature continued to fly round the chamber, far more irritated than injured.

Sherlock watched the monitor very carefully, while John watched Sherlock. This new advisor seemed entirely unfazed by either the offhanded incineration of a human or the sight of a non-human creature which apparently could not be destroyed by fire. John respected this, but he was also a bit frightened by it. He still flinched at the sight of certain specimens, even some of the human ones.

When Sherlock indicated that he had looked his fill, Martinsson turned to the armed guard and said, “You may fire when ready.” John rolled his eyes, knowing that Martinsson just _loved_ saying that.

The guard opened the hatch and pointed his rifle inside. The silencer on the barrel protected their hearing. He spent three rounds before pulling back and closing the hatch.

On the monitor, the creature lay still on the grate.

“So as you can see, Sherlock,” Martinsson began, but then the creature twitched once, and they reverted to silence for several seconds.

“Autonomic?” John suggested.

Martinsson used the toggle next to the monitor to zoom in on the creature. The exit wound in its head was clearly visible; the observing staff all watched as the wound began to close.

“Mother of Jesus,” John muttered.

Martinsson smirked. “Can’t say _she’s_ ever been much help to the Foundation.”

A bullet had passed through one of the creature’s wings, so when it righted itself and attempted to resume its flight, it merely sputtered and lurched about the chamber. If it was making any noise, they could not hear it.

“Now that’s interesting,” Sherlock said. “The change in the density of the stratum corneum to promote resistance to fire is one thing, but resistance to bullet wounds…!”

“Though it is a shame,” Martinsson said. “We can’t know whether the compromised movement is entirely due to the injured wing, or whether it might also at least partially be the result of the head trauma.”

“You could send for another Class D to provoke more creatures,” Sherlock said. He was not affected one whit when he met John’s withering glare. “They would only be terminated at the first of the month anyway. They might as well do some good.”

“Better not,” said Martinsson. “I think we should refrain from provoking any more creatures, to the extent that we are able.” He was looking expectantly at Sherlock now, awaiting a flawless, insightful conclusion about how to better contain this object.

When Sherlock said nothing, John interjected, “Can we not just fill the vase with concrete?”

“We tried. We poured sixty litres into that three-litre vase before we gave up.”

“What about just plugging the top?”

“A monster burst right through two days later. The shrapnel damaged the camera, and two Class Ds were mortally wounded repairing it. We’re developing an acid bath to replace the incinerator.”

“See that you do,” Sherlock said. “But straight afterward, be sure to develop another manner by which to exterminate these creatures, once the acid is no longer effective.”

Martinsson’s expression turned sour. “You know, we recruited you to advise us on how to contain these objects.” The tone in which he used the word _recruited_ gave John pause.

“Yes, and I’m advising you now,” Sherlock spat back, “when I say: _Know when you are beaten_.”

And then John learned something that he was certain would prove important for future reference: Sherlock absolutely had to have the last word. This was evidenced by the speed with which he turned and exited the observation chamber.

“He does that,” Martinsson said, shaking his head.


	2. Chapter 2

U-62 was an enormous and labrynthine facility; John had been there for months, and still occasionally encountered veteran staff for the first time, bumping into them in the corridors and common areas. And so he did not expect that he would necessarily see Sherlock Holmes again. He continued with his various assignments after the Monster Pot incident and did not think of Sherlock much, except when the stubborn stain on his coat-sleeve caught his eye.

When John wanted to be alone, but not confined to his miniscule quarters, he went to a the quietest recreation area, the library, which was seldom used by the staff. It was an ordinary library, not a research centre, though you wouldn’t know it by the entry procedure. Because of the number of objects at U-62 that affected (and were affected by) ink and paper products, one was allowed into the library only after being searched for potentially harmful writing materials with about the same rigor that would be applied to a young male civilian who happened to be of swarthy complexion before he would be allowed on a commercial flight. Thus, most staff eschewed the area, opting instead to use their tablet as an e-reader when they wished to partake of recreational literature. The resulting low attendance guaranteed John comfortable and relatively spacious solitude.

Today, however, he found that the little table and chair where he liked to drink coffee and read John Le Carre was occupied, by Sherlock Holmes and a chessboard. There was no chair opposite Sherlock’s, though a game was apparently in progress.

The only other item on the table was a chess clock, both sides of which Sherlock operated. As John approached, a black knight piece lifted itself up, levitated just long enough to make its standard L-shaped move, then settled back down on the board. The moment it did so, Sherlock hit the button on the component clock opposite himself, then pondered the board for only a few seconds before taking his own turn and pressing his own button.

Half a minute and four moves later, all of the white pieces on the board toppled over, and all of the remaining black pieces hopped up and down in their squares before returning to their original positions.

“I’m sorry,” John said. “I probably broke your concentration.”

“I’ve been playing against One Seventy-Seven for a week now,” Sherlock said. “I was nearly a match for him, until we started playing Blitz. He’s beaten me every time since then. But!” He sprang from the chair and picked up a book from off the floor nearby, which he showed to John. It was full of chess notation, which John had only a passing familiarity with. Sherlock continued, “I’ve examined the recordings of all our games, and compared them to the historical matches in this book, and I am fairly certain that this chessboard is inhabited by the spirit of 1921 World Champion Jose Capablanca. The moves closely resemble Capablanca’s style.”

John didn’t know much about One Seventy-Seven, as it was not a biological entity and so his expertise had never been called upon. “How did it know you were playing Blitz Chess?”

“I simply put the clock there, and after I made my opening move and hit the button, Black’s moves picked up in speed compared to the previous match. Whatever consciousness or sentience this board has, it is not limited to detecting the location of pieces on the board.”

“Speaking of that,” John said, “I mean, speaking of locating pieces on a board, did you by any chance know I was going to be here?”

“Not precisely, no. I bet [One Eighty-One](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-181) that he couldn’t guess where you would be on this day at this time. As he has no use for money in solitary confinement, I now owe him a Wii and access to pornographic magazines.”

One Eighty-One _was_ someone John was familiar with. “Isn’t communicating with him one of those things that’s prohibited on the grounds that it could tear apart the fabric of the universe? You could have just sent me an email.”

Sherlock’s expression suggested that he was averse to that method.

“Where’s your badge, by the way? Do you not wear one?”

“Lost it somewhere,” Sherlock replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Think it might have been eaten by [Six Eighty-Two](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-682). Boring. I’m more interested in _you_. What you’re into. What you were like growing up. Your hopes, your dreams.”

John had a brief suspicion that he being chatted up. “You really find me that fascinating?”

Sherlock leaned forward and fixed John with an intense gaze. “No. There’s only one thing I’m actually interested in right now. Please tell me, Doctor Watson: How long have you been working for the SCP Foundation against your will?”


	3. Chapter 3

Though he prided himself on his ability to remain stalwart, John was utterly disarmed by Sherlock’s question, and he could not suppress a self-conscious smirk when he said, “What makes you think I’m here against my will?” 

Sherlock leaned and gestured to another nearby chair, indicating that John should drag it over and have a seat himself. “I hadn’t read your file before we’d met,” he said as John got himself settled, “but I did take a look after we observed Nineteen. If your recruitment was ever recorded, it has been expunged, or I am not allowed access to it. But I did see that you requested a transfer out of Oh Twenty-Three four days after you were given clearance. No one who was working their way into Oh Twenty-Three would quit so soon. You must have done something to earn immediate Oh Twenty-Three status, and you had no idea what you were getting into. Your file shows six transfer requests in your first six weeks. Then none at all. So, you’re now resigned to working here forever.” 

John felt something welling up inside him, threatening to spill forth, and he understood then, how Sherlock had earned a reputation for being able to see through people. He actually only needed to possess the first morsel of insight, and something about hearing your private thoughts voiced to you made you feel like you’d finally found someone who understood you, and urged you to reveal any and all further information that he wished to glean from you. John understood that Sherlock’s was a potentially destructive power, and perhaps would prove _inherently_ destructive, in the fullness of time. But at that moment, he let himself be tugged by it, as if on a leash, and told Sherlock a story which he had told no one since his arrival at U-62, not even Mike Stamford. 

“I was stationed in Helmand province,” he began, “at Camp Bastion. We’d been hearing these rumors about a...I don’t remember the word the locals used, but it was some sort of mythical creature from the pre-Islamic period, that operated similar to a banshee. At first we thought that the war had just made them more superstitious. But then some men in my unit were sent out on a highly-secret mission, and I had to treat them when they returned. Every last man on that mission came back bleeding from their ears, and then after we went to work treating them, they began having seizures. Completely ideopathic, so far as I could tell. So far as I was _told_. Later, another squad was sent out, and they came back in the same condition. Could not stop the bleeding, let alone determine the cause. I was actually kind of thankful when the seizures began, because that was the only point at which any of them would stop screaming. And they were all dead within sixteen hours. 

“Before the last two died of massive cerebral hemorrhages, I managed to get a few words out of them. And then it became even more bizarre and disturbing, because they were babbling about Iron Man, something that looked like Iron Man. That seemed silly to me, but these men were not joking. They begged me to ‘make it shut up,’ but I couldn’t hear anything unusual so I didn’t understand what they were asking me to do. Blood was pouring out of their eyes, and most of them were vomiting blood as well. For two days I feared it was hemorrhagic fever, and of course no precautions against that sort of thing had been taken, so I just assumed I would die of it too. But days went by with no one else exhibiting symptoms, so I decided it couldn’t be that. 

“A week later, I was asked to treat some superficial cuts on a soldier who was being court-martialed for desertion. While I was with him, he told me why he had run away: he had accidentally seen some of the footage of what had happened to the first squad, and so when he was assigned to the second squad, he preferred to take his chances in the desert. I asked him to explain everything he saw, hoping for some medical insight, at least. There was this thing in the footage, seven feet tall, he said, and when the squad attacked it, it started to screech. This noise it made, apparently that was what caused the men to bleed. They didn’t start bleeding until the creature made the noise. And the deserter said that it just kept screeching until every man still alive had retreated. 

“It bothered me that, based on what I was told, this thing hadn’t attacked first. Maybe it had attacked other people in other places, but I thought, if we’re the aggressor, and this thing is just defending itself, there must be a way to do something about it that doesn’t involve rocket-propelled grenades. I mentioned this to my commander, and he thanked me for volunteering to lead the third squad. 

“Per my orders, my team carried no weapons. They put us in an armoured vehicle and drove us out to the mountains, and I mean we were just _miles_ from nowhere, even for Afghanistan. We approached the cave where it was apparently living, and when I saw it, I understood the Iron Man thing. But this, this thing was far more sinister. Claws for hands, metal sticking out at the joints. It looked like someone had taken a man who was no more than six feet tall, and _made_ him over seven feet by shoving metal into him in every direction. 

“I had an interpreter who spoke Pashto and Dari, and I asked him to greet the creature and tell him we weren’t going to hurt him. It didn’t respond. So I tried speaking to him in plain English, just to see what would happen, and he seemed to understand a bit of that. I just kept talking, and he talked back, through this metal grate he had instead of a mouth. He said – I had no idea what he meant but I’ll never forget the exact words – he said, ‘The evil inside is beyond us. We were lost in time of silence.’ So anyway, all this time I’m telling him we’re not going to hurt him, and I’m stepping slowly toward him, assuming that my squad was bringing up the rear. But when I got close enough to touch him, I turned around and no one else had moved. 

“He asked me if I could help him, and I said I wanted to. He sounded…sad. At that point I didn’t think this thing was in control of the screeching. I asked him, but he just said, ‘Evil metal. Blackness. Pain.’ I had a medical kit with some analgesics in it, and I asked him if it would be of any use to him, until we got him back to Bastion. I told him we could do more to stop the pain at Bastion. And I stepped away, and made a gesture like he could follow me, and he did. He wouldn’t fit in the vehicle we’d brought, so the rest of the team left me there with him, and they sent back a flat-bed truck for us. I never saw the thing after we got back to Bastion. 

“They didn’t give me any service medals, because, you know, what I’d done ‘never happened.’ But shortly after that, a civilian whom I’d never seen before arrived at Bastion. He told me that in light of my performance above and beyond the call of duty, I had the opportunity to join an elite medical research team. I thanked him but told him I never intended to go into research. I preferred to stay where I was, doing what I was doing. More exciting, I guess. But he said, ‘This is the kind of research that’s exciting.’ The whole thing seemed a bit _off_ to me; I assumed it was some sort of test. I refused again, and the man said that was too bad, because Colonel Brighton had already approved my transfer out of Bastion, and regardless of how I felt, I had better pack my bags. 

“On the way off the base, the vehicle in front of us in the convoy ran over an IED. A piece of shrapnel came through the windscreen and hit me in the shoulder. I was in Afghanistan for three more weeks because of that. When I finally got home, I was met by the same man, who explained that, though my duties would have to change, I would still be a part of the same team. So now I’m confined to U-62, and the _real_ Oh Twenty-Three people ask for my astute medical opinions on the cool monsters they got to catch. Humiliating.” 

All the time that John had been speaking, Sherlock had never interrupted, had never uttered any little noises to indicate that he was shocked by any aspect of the story. He’d just been sat there, rapt, supporting his chin with one hand. When John indicated that he had nothing more to add to his tale, Sherlock remained silent, so John said, “And you? Were you tricked into it, or did you work you way up?” 

“Neither. A year ago I was brought here from London, where I had been a sort of consultant to Scotland Yard. I was asked to solve a mystery at a teaching hospital. Corpses were turning up in the vicinity of the hospital, and Emergency Services had been getting calls from people screaming about ‘zombies.’ It was [Twenty-Two](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-022), The Morgue. Are you familiar? So, once I’d deduced what was happening, MI5 took over. Twenty-Two can’t be moved, or stopped, but I advised them on a mechanism for the containment and destruction of manifestations whilst ensuring as little disruption as possible in the surrounding area. MI5 were so impressed, they gave my name to the Foundation.” 

The conclusion of Sherlock’s brief tale was punctuated by the clatter of black chess pieces onto the board. John had been so wrapped up in telling his story, and then listening to Sherlock’s, that he had not even noticed that all the while, Sherlock had been playing a leisurely match with his intangible opponent.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock popped up at frequent intervals from then on, regularly intruding on John’s daily tasks. He sometimes had useful insights; more often, he provided John with news about various objects that he’d been dealing with, or simply bragged about his accomplishments. “A new entry appeared in the [Book of Endings](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-152) today.” “Turns out that the [magical twenty-sided die](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1974-ex) wasn’t magical at all. Its component material had been laced with an hallucinogen.”

This was disruptive enough, but even when he wasn’t around, Sherlock soon began intruding into John’s thoughts, as well.

The first few times John had seen him, he’d thought of him as being a bit funny-looking. Just a bit. But then later, trying to remember the details of Sherlock’s face, John formed a picture in his mind of someone rather more attractive.

Later, when he looked at Sherlock again with that new attraction lurking inside him, he perceived Sherlock as being a much better-looking bloke than he’d originally thought. But then afterwards, his mental image of Sherlock was of a man whose features were just slightly “off” again. He couldn’t seem to maintain a stable picture of Sherlock, between his eyes and his memory.

When John took the time to ponder this, he at first called it, to himself, “unsettling.” But words like “unsettling,” “disturbing,” and “weird” had taken on new dimensions since John had arrived at U-62. Sherlock was a different, pleasant, sort of bubbly kind of disturbance. John felt that if he could just get to know him a bit better, the mystique would wear off and Sherlock would cease to consume his thoughts. And it was certainly never long before Sherlock made another appearance.

*****

 John emerged from the shower, dry but still naked, to find Sherlock sitting on his bed. He snatched up his dressing gown and covered the bits of himself which he least wanted Sherlock to see, particularly whilst he was cold. “How did you get in here?” he snapped.

“The door was unlocked.”

“No it wasn’t!”

“It was by the time I turned the knob.”

“ _Well is there something I can do for you_?”

“I need your help.” Sherlock continued talking whilst John retreated to the bathroom to don his dressing gown properly. “Just some investigation, and then some acquisition. Nothing too involved, but I need an assistant.”

“Can’t help you this morning, I’m afraid. I’m scheduled to observe some Class D’s who are being exposed to [Three Oh Two](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-302).”

“I think you’ll find that you are not.”

John marched defiantly over to where Sherlock was sitting on the bed, picked up his tablet from the bedside table, and selected his calendar. But to his surprise, it was now blank until two in the afternoon. He knew that this could not be Sherlock’s doing, or at least, not directly. Personnel calendars were arranged and revised only by one’s Department Administrator, and often went blank – or became suddenly crowded – without any action on the part of the person whose schedule it actually was.

He tossed the tablet onto the bed in resignation. “May I get dressed first?” he said.

“Of course.” Sherlock stayed where he was and did not avert his eyes. John selected his clothes from the bureau and went back into the bathroom for some privacy. His annoyance soon grew beyond Sherlock’s intrusion, to include its indirect consequences; a moment after he put his socks on in the bathroom, he stepped in a puddle on the tile.

Their first stop was Agent Feston’s office. They did not find Agent Feston there, or not precisely. Instead they found a woman of identical appearance, voice, and attitude, but with a thick black “C” tattooed on her forehead and the back of each hand. Agent Feston had equal skill and fondness for field work and for research, and detested the shortage of hours that prevented her from pursuing both full-time. A second Feston was approved as a solution to her dilemma. It was considered highly prestigious to have a clone; not only did it indicate that you were such an asset to the Foundation that they were willing to [expend their precious resources on making an exact copy of you](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-222), but it proved that you were fiercely loyal to the Foundation and its objectives, as clones retained – and revealed – their original’s true allegiances.

Agent Feston herself was currently away, infiltrating a religious cult who worshipped an object long sought-after by the Foundation. But it was the clone that Sherlock wanted to speak to. They were acquainted, and she greeted him warmly. She had accompanied Sherlock on some of his initial introductions to sentient SCPs.

Amongst the clutter on Agent Feston’s desk was a tiny marble figurine, a dragon. Its carvings were exquisitely detailed, and set it apart immediately from the other dragons on the desk, all of which appeared to be mass-produced specimens that one could acquire at any major shopping centre.

Quickly dispensing with pleasantries, Sherlock indicated the marble figurine, and said, “My understanding is that this was acquired through Two Sixty-Three. Did you win it?”

“No,” said Feston. “I oversaw some experiments with Two Sixty-Three using D-class personnel. One of them who’d participated told me that he’d won it for me.”

“Did he know before the test that you liked dragons?”

“I was wearing a dragon hair-clip that day. He mentioned it, and showed me the dragon tattoo on his arm. I sent him into the testing area before the conversation could go any further. But when he came back out, he was holding that.”

John found this poignant. Sometimes D-class personnel understood immediately upon arrival at U-62 that they were doomed, and sometimes they didn’t, but regardless, one could not blame them – prisoners all, and some death-row inmates – for seeking desperately to establish connections with other people, forcing themselves into the tiniest gaps in procedures and agendas in an attempt to reinforce their humanity. And it couldn’t have hurt that Feston possessed an open, friendly demeanor, and that she and the Class D had two things in common: dragons and tattoos.

Sherlock appeared unmoved by the Class D’s display of affection, but did pursue it in his line of questioning. “You must have asked him how was he able to win a dragon, specifically?”

“At the time I was only an assistant, still on probation, as it were. As soon as he handed the dragon over, my supervisor had him taken away, and if he wasn’t terminated immediately, he was gone by the end of the month. I didn’t have clearance to access the file at that time, and I’ve been so busy since taking on research duties full-time, I haven’t thought to look at it again.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Unfortunately, there’s no data in the file about who acquired the dragon or how. But Doctor Sigmund has always been sloppy with his record-keeping. Anyway, thank you for your time, Agent Feston. And say hello to Agent Feston for me.”

 

*****

 

The disproportionate amount of Foundation staff with a military background had resulted in the support staff being informally designated “third-party nationals.” They were the janitors, cooks, electricians, and plumbers who kept Foundation facilities running smoothly.

Researchers, agents, and medical personnel were recruited from the highest military and academic ranks and selected for their capacity to comprehend and pursue forbidden knowledge, for their ability to maintain their sanity while walking down non-Euclidian paths. (Sherlock had once lamented to John that they were usually selected more for these traits than for actual _intelligence_.) But the support staff had less auspicious stories to tell: at some point in their ordinary civilian lives, they had witnessed an SCP in action, or had seen its results, and had managed to retain all their mental and physiological faculties. Whilst the people around them were mauled or went mad, these resilient types had remained intact and clear-headed, and so once the field agents had finished incinerating the corpses and administering Class A amnesiacs, the remaining lot, widows and orphans, were loaded into a van and told that their unique resilience had earned them a coveted place flipping burgers and cleaning toilets in some underground bunker or desert outpost for the rest of their lives.

These workers had carved out a niche in the Foundation, creating their own sub-cultures, in-jokes, slang, and social mores. Despite their disparate duties, they were united by their disdain for the elite personnel. And they happily kept company with Sherlock, who had just as much contempt as they did for the arrogant agents, unscrupulous researchers, and obnoxious Administrators.

Support staff could tell you far more useful information about the Foundation than any computerised database. Of particular value was clever Dinesh, a janitor who had witnessed the narrow aversion of an XK-class event in Mumbai several years previously.

Dinesh could tell you, for example, that when cleaning Doctor Martinsson’s bathtub, he often saw dark pubic hairs around the drain, even though Martinsson and his wife were blondes. He could tell you that Agent Mayor had once attempted to flush an extremely incriminating object down the toilet, and when her plan failed and the toilet backed up, Dinesh and the plumber both caught sight of what the object had been. (Dinesh was later recalled to Agent Mayor’s quarters to tidy up after her suicide. The official report had identified her cause of death as “gunshot wound,” but, Dinesh had said, it had not been a gunshot wound.)

Dinesh did not circulate this information freely, or use it for blackmail. He understood that for an administrator, downgrading him to D-class was only slightly more difficult than _not_ doing so. But when he heard rumors of SCP-263 and the funds it might dispense, he’d persuaded a doctor with a dark secret to let him interact with SCP-263, and send whatever he left the room with – provided it had no anomalous properties – back home to his remaining family. This is what Sherlock had come asking about, with John in tow.

Dinesh explained, “I’d overheard someone, talking about a rumor that _they’d_ overheard, about Two Sixty-Three, that if you thought about what prize you wanted really hard, you’d win it. Sometimes it’s difficult to tell when a rumor is founded in something, and when it’s a practical joke being perpetrated on newbies. But I thought it would be harmless to wish for a bit of cash. When I looked down and saw that the bills I was holding had the host’s face on them, I gave it up for a prank and haven’t thought about it since.”

“Did they let you keep the notes?” (Despite the overwhelming preponderance of Americans at U-62, Sherlock refused to adopt their vernacular.)

“No, they said they had to run tests.”

“Did it feel like real currency?”

“Hard to say. I wished for rupees but I won American dollars. I’d seen it in films but I’d never handled any before.”

Sherlock thanked Dinesh for his time.

 

*****

 

Sherlock still had not explained to John what, precisely, he was hoping to accomplish, and why he needed John to “assist” him for it. Sherlock strode down the corridor with purpose, and John had to jog a bit just to keep up.

As if he had heard the question in John’s head, Sherlock said, “I know that the reason you’re disappointed in your work here isn’t that it is gruesome, nightmare-inducing, and occasionally unethical. You’re only upset about being _confined_ to this facility. If it were up to you, you’d be rappelling down the sides of buildings, smashing through windows, and retrieving SCPs yourself, not poking at dead things and filling out charts. That’s why I arranged for you to do something more exciting today.”

For a brief moment, John was pleased to hear this. He was definitely up for doing something exciting. But it didn’t take long for him to guess the precise nature of the excitement that Sherlock wished to provide him with.

“Oh, no,” he said. “No no no. I’m not playing _Cash or Ash_. Forget it.”

“But John–”

“Why do you even need my help? Why don’t you just play it yourself?”

“I can’t,” Sherlock snapped. After a self-conscious pause, he went on, his voice degraded to a mumble. “That is…I’m forbidden to access it myself. Long story. Administrator with a grudge against me.”

“Look, I understand that in your infinite wisdom, or whatever it is that you have, that you’ve deduced that I’m interested in your unique methods and the way you apply them.”

“You fancy me.”

“No one is saying that.”

“I’m saying that.”

“Well, _I’m_ saying do not think that you can push me around and use me on a whim as a lab rat for your experiments.”

“It’s not precisely an experiment. This facility has taken on more than its share of cognitohazards, and we’re running low on [Telekill](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-148). I thought we could win some by playing _Cash or Ash_. It’s quite simple. All you have to do is sit in the room and transmit me the questions. I’ll transmit the answers back to you, and you read them aloud.”

To be fair, it _was_ simple...so long as nothing went wrong. And things often went wrong at the Foundation.

“This was a present,” Sherlock said. “For your birthday.”

John narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, then opened his tablet. It was indeed the seventh of July. John hardly paid attention to the days anymore. Perhaps he should start again.

 

*****

 

The television sat on a stainless steel table in a white room. A single straight-backed chair had been placed in front of it.

John sat in the chair and switched on the television. As expected, there was a man on the screen, standing in the middle of a quiz show set, and hung behind him was a sign which read, in bold letters,

**CASH  
**

**OR  
**

**ASH**

The man, the host of the show, was calming down the cheering audience so that he could announce, “We have a new competitor who’s just tuned in! We sure do wish him a whole lotta luck in answering our three fiendish questions!” He raised one eyebrow on the word _fiendish_.

John held his tablet in his sweaty hands. He had the texting application open and the voice recognition turned on. All prior testing performed with SCP-263 indicated that the host of the show would not recognise a device manufactured more recently than 1965, but it was not unheard of to run tests on an object for years before discovering that it was sentient, and could learn new things. John’s mouth went dry as he pictured the host suddenly catching sight of the thing in his hands, and accusing him of cheating.

“Your first question,” the host said, and began to read off the card in his hand. “If you input forty-five seconds, at power level four, into the Timecrowave, how many seconds will its contents have aged?”

John hit the stopwatch button on his wristwatch. His tablet recognised each word and transcribed it perfectly into the texting application. John hit the “send” button, then watched the seconds tick by on his watch. _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen_ …Sweat was already springing up on his forehead and chest. He did not even know what the Timecrowave was, but he did know that this was a math question. Those were his least favourite questions. He also knew that if the text hadn’t been sent properly, or if Sherlock was having trouble on his end, John had no way of knowing, and he would never be able to answer this question without Sherlock’s help.

At thirty-seven seconds (with eight full seconds to spare), he received a message: **4100625.**

John squinted at the number. “Four million, one hundred thousand, six hundred and twenty five!” he shouted, and the host cried, “You are correct! Give him a hand, folks!” The audience erupted in applause.

“Moving on now,” the host said. “SCP One Fifty-Six is a group of exactly how many pomegranate arils?”

While waiting for the answer, John stared at the stopwatch, and so he knew precisely how long he was spending thinking about how creepy this television was (nineteen seconds). He’d mostly become inured to the horrifying biological entities he had to deal with every day, but this object was beyond his understanding, and the abject terror that he’d managed to stop feeling after his first month here came afresh. He kept forgetting to breathe, and when he did, each inhalation was a gasp and each exhalation a sigh. It made him think back to his first, stressful driving lessons, where his mum had complained, as he rolled jerkily down the street in their Vauxhall Astra, that he sounded like Darth Vader.

**181**

“One hundred and eighty-one,” John recited.

“Right again! Congratulations!” Another roar of applause, which, however brief, nearly drove John mad with impatience to get to the last question.

“Your third and final question: What entity contaminates beds, and manifests when a human enters REM sleep?”

Just as John hit the “send” button, he noticed that the question had been transcribed incorrectly. **…the entity that contaminates beads…** He almost said “Oh shit,” but he bit it back; if the host heard him say anything besides the correct answer, it was all over.

John would have to use precious seconds typing the correction in and transmitting it to Sherlock. And he was not a fast typer.

**not bead. bed.**

As he sent it, he realised that he had not hit the stopwatch. He had no idea how much time was left. His skin felt prickly, and he could swear the room had gotten hotter. He tugged at his collar, and wondered if, when time ran out and he was incinerated, if it would be a prolonged and painful torching, or if he would vaporise in a flash and not feel a thing. He was moments away from finding out.

The answer appeared on his tablet. But it had a zero in front of it, and a fresh wave of panic washed over John as he wondered: _Does it matter if I say Seventy Two, or SCP Seventy Two?…or SCP Zero Seven Two? What if I choose the wrong way?_

The host looked concerned, and opened his mouth, ready to say something.

“SCP Zero Seven Two!” John shouted.

The host’s expression quickly changed from mock pity to excitement. “Correct! A big hand folks, for today’s winner!”

The aftershocks of adrenalin made it difficult for John to concentrate on the Telekill. He put his trembling hands out in front of him, as though he were holding a football. He pictured a lump of Telekill in his mind, a piece big enough to match his empty grip. And then his hands were wrapped round something cold and smooth. He looked down. He had no idea if it was an actual usable piece, but there it was.

His sweat-damp clothes stuck to the vinyl of the seat as he stood up. The roar of applause was cut short as the television switched itself off.

The door handle twitched a few times. John couldn’t calm himself enough to manipulate it properly. Sherlock opened the door, and John stumbled out, snarling, “You bastard. I could have been killed.”

Sherlock seemed to think that the proper response to this was to smile. “Yes, you could have been. But you weren’t.”

John shivered under the influence of all the chemicals coursing through his bloodstream. He had forgotten how good it felt to come so close to death and go on living, to grind your heel on the Grim Reaper’s face as you pivoted and strode away. He tingled all over. He wanted to be alone. No, it wasn’t that he wanted to be _alone_ , but he didn’t have anyone with whom to participate in the activity that he wanted to participate in right now, so being alone was his distant second preference.

“I’m, er…going to back to my room to have another shower,” he said.

Sherlock examined the patches on John’s lower back, chest, and armpits, where sweat had soaked through his shirt. “Good idea,” he replied coolly. He said nothing about the way John was awkwardly holding his tablet in front of his trousers as he walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

*****BONUS MATERIAL*****

**A guide to the SCP Foundation hierarchy as it is portrayed in _A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]_.**

CONTAINS NO SPOILERS

This is not part of the story and you don’t have to read it. It’s here if you want a clearer look into how I arranged the Foundation for purposes of my fic. It does not entirely conform to every bit of canonical information on the SCP Wiki. It is something I made up for my own reference when writing _A Study in [DATA EXPUNGED]_.

**Facilities, Departments, and Staff**

At the top we have the Overseers, also called Directors, also called O-5s. There are thirteen, designated O5-1 to O5-13. They have the final word on everything that happens at the SCP Foundation, and their word is law. Their respective names and whereabouts are unknown.

The SCP operates in [numerous facilities](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/secure-facilities-locations) around the world. The satellite facilities (the ones that are built to house a single item) are “attached” to the nearest large facilities (the ones that house a quantity of SCP objects in the double or triple digits).

Each facility is run by a single Administrator, who oversees all the departments in the facility. The number and size of departments depends on the size of the facility. These are some examples, but not every facility has all of them:

_Under the Biological Science umbrella:_

DEPARTMENT OF HUMANOID BIOLOGY AND MEDICINE  
DEPARTMENT OF XENOBIOLOGY  
DEPARTMENT OF VIROLOGY  
DEPARTMENT OF VETERINARY MEDICINE

_Under the Physical Science umbrella:_

DEPARTMENT OF NON-EUCLIDIAN AND EXTRADIMENSIONAL ENTITIES  
DEPARTMENT OF MEMETICS AND COGNITOHAZARDS  
DEPARTMENT OF PHYSICS, MATHEMATICS, AND COMPUTER SCIENCE  
DEPARTMENT OF ASTRONOMY  
DEPARTMENT OF NUCLEAR, BIOLOGICAL, AND CHEMICAL HAZARDS

_Under the Social Science umbrella:_

DEPARTMENT OF RELIGION, LINGUISTICS, AND CULTURE  
DEPARTMENT OF PSYCHOLOGY _  
_

_Also:  
_

DEPARTMENT OF PUBLIC RELATIONS AND PUBLIC ENGAGEMENT  
DEPARTMENT OF INTERNAL SECURITY  
DEPARTMENT OF ADMINISTRATIVE SUPPORT

[Task Forces](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/task-forces) such as Alpha-2 and Gamma-5 are considered part of the Department of Public Relations and Public Engagement. Mobile Task Forces that deal exclusively with one category of SCP object are considered sub-sectors of the relevant department. (For example, Mobile Task Force Eta-10 belongs to the Department of Memetic and Cognitohazards.)

Each department is headed by an Administrator. To differentiate them from the facility Administrators (when not called by name), they are referred to as, for example, “Site 19 Administrator,” or “Virology Admin.”

The science departments are divided into three levels: the senior researchers (physicians, historians, linguists, psychologists, historians) research support (junior researchers, lab assistants, nurses, orderlies, and technicians), and field agents (task force members, investigators, “employees” at Foundation front businesses). Each agent or senior researcher can be assigned to any number of SCP objects, and they in turn have the authority to assign whichever assistants they feel are most suited to the necessary duties. Assistant duties range from transcription to triage, and the degree of danger varies greatly. Assistants are free to refuse any task involving interaction with Euclid or Keter objects, but their opportunities for advancement (into, say, a Mobile Task Force) are reduced if they do so.

The Department of Public Relations and Public Engagement is devoted to suppressing knowledge of SCP objects and the Foundation itself, disseminating disinformation, and dealing with ordinary citizens who unwittingly engaged with SCP objects or entities. There is also a sector devoted to [Groups of Interest](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/groups-of-interest). Some field agents are attached to this department, rather than one of the science departments.

The Department of Internal Security is divided into three sectors: surveillance (monitoring and archiving of closed-circuit camera footage), encryption (securing restricted data), and security staff. The security guards are assigned either to SCP containment or to Class D personnel.

The Department of Administrative Support is devoted to mundane facility functions: janitors, file clerks, cooks, dishwashers, plumbers, electricians, and switchboard operators are all part of this department.

**Security clearances**

\- All staff members, from the ones who flip the burgers to the ones who wrangle Keters, have a [security clearance](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/security-clearance-levels).  
\- Overseers and the Administrators of certain facilities are Level 5.  
-Anyone who holds any Administrator title is at least Level 4.  
-All members of the Department of Security are at least Level 3.  
-All researchers are at least Level 2. Some have clearance up to Level 4, depending on the nature of the objects they have been tasked with interacting with.  
-All assistants in the science departments are at least Level 1. Some have clearance up to Level 4, depending on the nature of the objects they have been tasked with interacting with.  
-All administrative support staff are Level 0. They do not interact in any way with actual SCP objects, nor do they view dangerous archival materials. (And most of them are happy to keep it that way!)

**How Sherlock and John fit in to all this**

John, a physician, is part of the research staff in the Department of Humanoid Biology and Medicine. Sherlock has been designated an “Advisor” and is not currently attached to any department.

Sherlock and John are both members of task force O-23. O-23 is nicknamed “The Kitchen Sink” and is made up of several dozen personnel, scattered throughout various facilities, to whom the Foundation turns as a last resort. When no one else can survive long enough to capture, contain, decipher, stabilise, or communicate with an SCP, you call in the Kitchen Sink. Some O-23 personnel are field agents, but Sherlock and John are research staff, and work only within the U-62 facility. Membership in this task force gives them Level 5 security clearance and access to Keter-class objects, but they are still subject to Foundation protocols and chains of command.


	5. Chapter 5

Currently, the Foundation was responsible for over two thousand SCPs; some were incomprehensibly dangerous, most were poorly understood, and a few had qualities so alluring, even the possibility of death or dismemberment could not entirely extinguish the temptation to sample their powers. (As John well knew.) 

No Foundation staff member could or was expected to identify each and every object by name or number. The physicists would bill and coo over mysterious geodesic spheres and miniature black holes all day long, but those things bored monster-hunting task forces to death. John was a medical man whose area of expertise was active biological entities, so there were numbers he recognised instantly. For example, [202](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-202) was a familiar and unexciting number to him; John was one of two doctors assigned to monitor his physical condition. On the other hand, the number “[49](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-049)” had the same notoriety among Foundation physicians that the name “Kevorkian” had among ordinary civilians. 

So when John read memos and alerts on his tablet regarding specific SCPs, he often had to touch the hot-linked numbers on the screen to bring up an unfamiliar entity’s file, so he could understand precisely how careful he would have to be, to avoid making a fatal mistake. Like all tablets, his had an application that let you log all the SCPs whose containment areas you shouldn’t approach, and your tablet would beep if you were about to wander into danger. (For example, one staff linguist was barred from certain floors entirely, because of his pacemaker.) 

On the other hand, sometimes John could read a memo and quickly infer that he had nothing to worry about. Today’s red-bordered alert was one of those: 

 

**Implications of the destruction of SCP-469  
**

**The success of Sherlock’s proposal that we use[SCP-120](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-120) to send [SCP-469](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-469) to the _Mare Ibrium_ does NOT mean that we can just dispose of any pesky SCP by sending it to the Moon. SCP-469 could only be terminated in perfect silence, and so using SCP-120 to send it into the vacuum of space to suffocate was the most reasonable and expedient method available. It is certainly not the most reasonable and expedient method for SCPs which   
**

  * **do not breathe**
  * **do not exist entirely in this dimension**
  * **cannot fit in a paddling pool** **  
**



**The Moon is not our trash bin. I feel compelled to issue a reminder that any personnel attempting to utilise SCP-120 without authorisation are to be terminated immediately. – Dr Corbitt, U-62 Administrator**

 

A biological entity that was dead and gone, and some sort of teleportation device. Two things that were not John’s problem. 

In the upper-right corner of his tablet, the time displayed was 14:25. Nearly time for his physical therapy. He eschewed the actual physical therapist, and ignored her scolding emails, in favour of playing table-tennis by himself against a half-folded table in the top-floor lounge. _That_ appointment he kept without fail. 

The lift stopped on the second floor, and Sherlock got on. Sherlock proceeded to punch an override code into the keypad, which caused the first-floor indicator light to flicker off, and instead pushed the “4” button. (U-62 was entirely underground, and higher numbers indicated lower, more secure floors.) When the door opened to the fourth floor, Sherlock extended his arm in a “you first” gesture. 

“You know,” John said, “you don’t always have to come to me when you need help. There are lots of research assistants here.”  
“There are, aren’t there,” said Sherlock absently. “Anyway, I need your expert opinion on an interrogation that must be run in the next three hours. A Gamma Six agent was killed during a failed attempt to contain some sort of sea-beast, and based on the information taken from his ship’s recorder, he was the sole visual witness to the creature’s memetic ability. The only way to get the information necessary to better prepare for the next encounter with the creature is to debrief the agent.” 

“The dead agent.” 

“Yes. We’d like your opinion about whether it would be better to use [Three Oh Eight](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-308), or [Three Eighte](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-318)\--” 

Sherlock was interrupted by the screeching of a klaxon. U-62 had a number of klaxons; John recognised this one as the signal for a complete evacuation of all personnel. 

A security guard with a Level 3 badge came barreling round the corner. He skittered to a stop when Sherlock blocked the exit with his body. 

“Why are you just standing there? It’s an evacuation! Twenty-Nine escaped from her cell! Can’t you hear the alarm?” 

Sherlock held the guard by his shoulder. “You’re in luck. We’re Oh Twenty-Three; we can get you into the Admin’s own personal panic room.” (John wondered why Sherlock was lying.) “Much safer than fleeing, if Twenty-Nine’s whereabouts are unknown. And it’s closer than the lift. Why don’t we just take a stroll–” 

“No! No no no!” the guard said, like a child. “I have to _leave!_ ” 

John felt a strange sympathy for this frightened young man. He wanted to help him. He wanted to run ahead of the guard and open every door between here and the exit, so that the guard could more easily pass through, and then call the lift and hold those doors open as well. And he had no idea _why_ he felt that way. 

But Sherlock looked the guard deeply in the eyes and spoke calmly and clearly over the klaxon. “Judging by the time the klaxon sounded and your running speed, _you_ justpulled the alarm nearest to us. If Twenty-Nine has escaped, the first alarm to have been pulled should have been the one right outside her cell, on the other end of this floor. _So how did you get the knife?_ ” 

The guard let loose a growl of frustration and tore Sherlock’s shirt-sleeve from his arm in a movement so quick John could hardly distinguish what was happening, until the guard got the sleeve round Sherlock’s neck and began to strangle him with it. 

John leapt onto the guard’s back, attempting to get his fingers into the guard’s nostrils to pull him back. Instead, the guard crouched and launched himself backwards, crushing John in a suplex. With John on the ground, the guard seized his tablet and used the edge to jab him in the throat, striking his larynx and compressing the airway. The guard then returned his attention to Sherlock, who had recovered but seemed no match for the lightning reflexes of his opponent. 

Fighting for air, John reached toward his hip, but hesitated. The struggle going on was so vigorous, and in such close quarters; was he making the right choice? But there was no more time. He had to trust his own ability. 

And then the perfect moment came: Right in the middle of winning the battle, the guard suddenly stopped, and looked at Sherlock curiously. Somehow, Sherlock had enough air to laugh at the guard, and he did. 

In that second and a half of stillness, John produced a Browning L9A1 from beneath his lab coat and fired two shots. The first went into the wall; the second found the guard’s neck, and he dropped to the ground. Sherlock righted himself and watched intently as the guard twitched and bled out, after which point he was not a guard at all, but a young female, whose blotchy skin was, by turns, pitch-black and ash-white. 

“That was a big risk,” Sherlock said. “You could easily have hit me, and Twenty-Nine’s file specifies that she is impervious to damage.” 

“I’ve examined [Twenty-Nine](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-029) myself. I know her resilience doesn’t apply under bright lights.” 

Sherlock nodded, and when he caught John’s eye, John saw a look that said, _You are even more valuable to me than I had previously assumed._

“How are you allowed to carry a firearm?” Sherlock asked. 

“Strictly speaking,” John said, “I’m not.” 

They heard the patter of several personnel scurrying down the corridor towards them. “Even if you manage to convince Corbitt that you got the guard’s gun off of him and used it,” Sherlock said, “the CCTV and a ballistics test would easily reveal the truth. Think you’re going to have to own this one, Doctor Watson.” He gave John a smile that was reassuring in its playfulness. 

Corbitt, the U-62 Administrator, along with Prohias, the chief of fourth-floor security, and another Level 3 guard came to a halt at the junction, all of them shocked and dismayed. 

Corbitt shrieked, “What the hell happened here? This is not the proper procedure when the evacuation klaxon sounds!” 

“I should think Doctor Watson should be commended for his effective neutralisation of such a dangerous entity.” 

“Sherlock, I know you are not stupid, so clearly you must be insane to think that. We have no way of knowing whether Twenty-Nine is actually dead. She may be a spirit who’s on her way to inhabit another body. _If_ she hasn’t doesn’t so already!” Corbitt turned and addressed Prohias. “This entire facility is on lockdown until we can determine that no one present is hosting Twenty-Nine. _And_ we’ve found the guard she was impersonating.” Prohias trotted away, muttering into his walkie-talkie. 

“And [the knife](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-034)!” Sherlock called after him. Then he turned to Corbitt and said, “Doctor Watson suffered a throat strike from Twenty-Nine. May I escort him to the infirmary?” 

Corbitt eyed Sherlock suspiciously, then tilted his chin in the general direction of Sherlock’s intended destination. “Go ahead. But he’ll need to be examined to prove he’s not hosting Twenty-Nine himself. And I want you both in my office for a debriefing immediately after.” 

“Of course, naturally.” Sherlock took John by the arm and led him round the corner, but then made a wrong turn, heading not towards the fourth-floor infirmary, but to the lift. 

“God, I haven’t had _that_ kind of excitement in years.” John shivered all over and made a noise a bit like he was cold, but mostly like he was pleased. He was obviously more enamoured with close combat than quiz-show thrill-seeking. Once aboard the lift, Sherlock pushed “1.” Brimming with energy, John hummed, and hopped up and down on the balls of his feet as the lift made its way to the top floor. “Er, where are we going?” he asked. 

Sherlock gently felt John’s throat, which sent an even more piercing, pleasing thrill through John’s body. “You’re fine. You don’t need to go to the infirmary. But you do seem a little…flustered.” 

“I feel fantastic, actually.” John giggled to himself, then lowered his voice and said, “You know what I really feel like doing right now…” 

“Actually, I think I do. That’s why we’re headed for the dormitories.” 

John’s heart leapt. “ _We_ …? You mean, together? I didn’t think you…” 

Sherlock’s expression rendered the rest of that sentence moot. So instead John simply asked, “Where’s your room, then?” 

Sherlock flinched. “Why don’t we go to yours?” 

 

*****

 

John’s room was dark, windowless. As soon as they were in, and closed the door behind them, Sherlock wrested himself from John’s eager hands to switch on the bedside lamp. “Let’s have a light on,” he said, “so we can see each other.” 

“Fine with me,” John said, trying to get Sherlock’s shirt and trousers unbuttoned at the same time. He lost his balance, grabbed Sherlock, and they tumbled not quite halfway onto the bed. Now that John was this close, he could smell skin and fresh sweat under Sherlock’s shirt, which incited him further. 

It had been so long, John had nearly forgotten how amazing it felt to fuck when he was chock-full of adrenalin. He didn’t understand why people were content to do it any other way. It wasn’t just more exciting, it was…life-affirming. Sherlock was calmer than John about it, but plenty keen, lifting his legs to better receive John’s frantic thrusts. But before long, John decided that missionary style did not sufficiently enable him to expel his pent-up energy, and when the exhilaration overcame him, he got up off of Sherlock just long enough to put him on hands and knees, so he could pound him more deeply from behind. Sherlock was amenable to this. He seemed amenable to everything, in fact, happily getting into any position John wanted to try, and never seeming to suffer from fatigue. 

Once John began to pay proper attention, he found Sherlock’s behaviour intriguing. Sherlock moved like an expert on John’s cock, pushing back and grinding against him, but he made noises like he’d never known such pleasure before. It made John want to calm down and have a bit of fun, rather than just mindlessly pulverise Sherlock’s arse. He paused the proceedings once more, to lie flat on his back and put Sherlock on top of him. He could last longer in this arrangement anyway, and he wanted this to last a _long_ time. He was still in a frenzy, but he wanted to exhaust himself, to come only when he felt like he just couldn’t go on anymore. 

At first, Sherlock was facing him, begging all the while, “Look at me, John. Keep your eyes on me.” John couldn’t say he blamed Sherlock for wanting to be looked at. If he were better looking himself, and not disfigured by so much scar tissue, John might fancy being watched intensely whilst he fucked. He grinned at the sight of Sherlock’s cock, not quite completely hard, slapping against his belly, and sometimes against his thighs, as he rode. Then he asked if Sherlock wouldn’t mind turning the other way, which he didn’t. The reason John asked was, it turned him on to see a bit of jiggling flesh, and Sherlock’s bum was the only part of him that jiggled in the slightest. John slapped it playfully, spread Sherlock’s cheeks to see how his cock looked going in and out. Sherlock sighed and cooed his approval, and continued to bounce on him. 

John called for a brief halt when he felt an increase in the friction between them. He explained that he was going to apply more lube – Vaseline, the only thing he had handy for such a task – though it was also an excellent excuse to watch his cock slowly slide out and eventually pop free of Sherlock’s body, and then slowly push it back inside when he was finished slicking it. Sherlock seemed to understand what was going on, so when he resumed, it was with slow, luxurious strokes. 

“How are you so fucking perfect,” John grunted. Sherlock just bounced some more. 

John wanted to close his eyes, and just feel Sherlock with his hands and his cock, but Sherlock kept chanting, “Look at me. Watch me.” _What a little show-off_ , John thought, but it only made him smile. 

What finally pushed John over the edge was the sight of Sherlock’s twitching wrist and arm as he jerked himself off. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s prick from where he was, but that suggestive motion was enough. “Yeah, are you gonna come,” John growled. “Are you gonna come for me, love.” 

Sherlock made an odd little grunt and his spine arched and kinked. Unsatisfied with those subdued noises, John grabbed him hard while fucking up into his body, and was rewarded with much more gratifying squeaks and shrieks. 

John’s cock pulsed hard, and he cried out as if in agony. The way Sherlock squeezed around him prolonged his ecstasy, until his shouting was reduced to a pathetic, rhythmic wheeze. With his last burst of energy, he sat up, wrapped his arms round Sherlock, and pulled him down on top of him. “C’mere,” he whispered into Sherlock’s neck, and planted sloppy kisses up and down his chin, neck, and shoulder. “You have no idea how much I needed that. You were incredible. D’you think you might want to go again soon?” 

“I’m afraid that that’s going to have to satisfy you for the time being.” 

“Mmm…Says who?” 

Sherlock tilted his head. “Says the man at the door,” he sighed. 

And just then, there was a knock and a voice, “Sherlock! We need you immediately, please!” 

John stopped with the kissing. “How the hell does he know you’re in here?” he whispered. With the mood broken, he now felt wrecked and clammy. He slid out from under Sherlock and sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with his hands. “God, fuck,” he muttered. 

Sherlock dispensed with any attempt at propriety, seeing as how they were already found out. “I know, I know, the debriefing,” he groaned as he rolled off the bed. “Tell Corbitt that Doctor Watson and I will be there in five minutes. Just need a shower.” 

“No, no there’s no time,” said the voice on the other side of the door. “It’s Eighty-Nine. It’s having a locution event!”


	6. Chapter 6

The trek to Eighty-Nine’s containment chamber was long, and John’s rumpled clothes were sticking to him in places he’d rather not have things sticking to him. “What is so important about this thing and its ‘locution event?’” he huffed. 

“You’ve likely not had any dealings with Eighty-Nine,” Sherlock guessed, and correctly. 

“I’ve overheard bits and pieces about it. For some reason I’ve been barred from reading the file.” 

“You would be. Part of the file has to do with you. That is, not you personally, just something that you…Do you know when the last locution event was?” 

“No.” 

“August of 2001. And do you know how long it took to carry out Protocol M Eight?…Until July of last year.” 

“An epic disaster that went on for twelve years? I should think I would have known about something like that. Wouldn’t everyone? How could a catastrophic event go _on_ for so long, and then just…” John’s eyes suddenly clouded over with the realisation. 

“By the time the mother consented to Protocol M Eight, the child was fourteen years old, and was nearly too large to fit in the chamber.” 

“Only nearly, though?” 

“If the mother didn’t already regret delaying her consent for thirteen years, she certainly did then, when we had to break all four of her child’s limbs to cram him into the chamber. There was hardly room for the oil and charcoal.” 

“ _We_?” 

“I was the one who finally convinced her. Eighty-Nine was my first assignment after I was recruited. She had never trusted anyone else from the Foundation because they spoke to her through a translator. Turns out all I needed to do was speak to her directly in Amurdak.” 

“Oh, well, glad to know it was as simple as that all along, to get the issue tidied away.” 

“Don’t take it personally,” Sherlock said. “Anyway, what else would you have been doing all those years? Prescribing anti-depressants to footballer’s wives in Kensington?” 

Eighty-Nine was kept in a shipping container in a room the size of a hangar. The door to the container was open. Inside, two researchers were performing the standard battery of scans with a Geiger counter and infra-red goggles, whilst nearby, an audio-visual engineer, a translator, and a third researcher were seated at a folding table, watching a looped recording of Eighty-Nine on a portable monitor. Behind them was Eighty-Nine itself, a nine-foot-high clay statue of a winged man with the head of a bull, arms outstretched and its mouth gaping. The torso was oddly squareish, betraying its purpose as a compartment for incineration. 

When John and Sherlock walked into the container, all five personnel took one look at the disheveled clothes and mussed hair, and one sniff of the distinctive clinging odour, and they all knew. Something about the length of the stares and the nonplussed expressions gave John pause. This was not the first time in his life he’d been caught with a colleague, but he did not recall ever receiving so much simultaneous judgment and bewilderment. He attributed it to their surprise at the gender of the person he’d been found with, and also the Foundation staff’s general perception of Sherlock as being a bit of a weirdo, and so he ignored it. 

The engineer waved Sherlock over to the table, and played the recording of the locution event for him. 

The statue on the monitor was just as still as the statue sitting before them. But it was speaking with a booming voice in a strange language. Sherlock seemed to understand it perfectly well, but the translator said, for John’s benefit: 

“ _Four eyes! Three arms! Two mouths! It will never eat of the meat of the camel, but only what blights the soil and calls men to war!_ ” 

The words chilled John to the bone. “Jesus Christ,” he said, “does that mean some sort of monster is going to attack?” 

“That’s not the event prediction,” said the engineer. “That’s the description of the child it wants.” 

“Ugh,” Doctor Hodgman moaned, ignoring the translator as he continued reciting. (The middle part was just the necessary ritual, already documented as Protocol M8.) “It’s a lot easier when the thing just gives us a proper name.” 

The engineer shushed him. “Here comes the event.” 

The translator said, “ _The fire that sucks, the flesh that peels. The rain that feeds no soil, the light that nurtures not_.” 

And that was the end of the locution. Everyone stood staring at Sherlock for a response. Sherlock remained motionless and said nothing for six full minutes. 

Doctor Matting grew impatient. “Okay, the child will never eat the meat of the camel. Does that mean the child lives in the Middle East or Africa, and it’s unusual that it won’t eat camel? Or does it mean the child might live anywhere _except_ the Middle East or Africa, hence the reason why it won’t eat camel?” 

“Four eyes, two mouths, but only three arms,” Doctor Hodgman said. “Might mean Eighty-Nine wants twins, and one of the twins lost an arm in a bombing. In the Middle East, that wouldn’t be an unheard-of situation.” 

Doctor Matting dismissed this. “Eighty-Nine has only ever asked for one child at a time.” 

“Maybe the delay of Protocol M8 last time made it hungrier.” 

For the first time since watching the locution event, Sherlock moved; he turned to Doctor Hodgman and asked, “Who’s in charge of anomalous births?” 

“That would be Doctor Naipul. He’s not here, though. He resides at Site Nineteen.” 

“I need to look at his records. Are they on the intranet?” 

“They should be. Shall we adjourn to the computer lab?” 

On the way to the lab, John walked stiffly, anticipating a crude remark, or at least a bit of snickering. But apparently the gravity of the situation kept any uncouth impulses in check. 

Computers were ubiquitous in the facility. In addition to the tablet that each staff member was issued, with its PDA functions and limited intranet access, there were some desktop setups in the recreation areas, so personnel could play during their off hours, and many others in the strictly-business research laboratories, with iron-clad security and priority access to the servers. Sherlock sat at one of these and logged onto the intranet. The engineer and translator had moved on to other tasks, but John and the other three doctors stood round Sherlock and watched him raptly. Doctor Hodgman tried directing him to Doctor Naipul’s database, but Sherlock was a click ahead of him at all times, navigating the unfamiliar file-tree expertly. 

“Can you sort by country of birth? I only need to look at Bolivia.” By the time Sherlock said this aloud, he’d already found the function that allowed him to do it. 

The data on the screen was scrolling by so fast, and was so full of Naipul’s abbreviations, John could not absorb or comprehend any of it. But Sherlock hummed with satisfaction, indicating that he not only knew precisely what he was doing, but he was finding the information he needed in the process. 

It made John wonder if he was far slower on the uptake than he’d previously suspected, until Doctor Hodgman snapped, “Could you please explain what it is you’re up to?” 

“Four eyes and two mouths but only three arms?” Sherlock said as he selected a file from the search results. “In a single human? Conjoined twins! Eighty-Nine might regard them as one being, if they only have one brain.” 

Sherlock clicked on an icon within the file that opened a full-colour photograph: a pitiful pair of infants, their bodies converging to form a 90-degree angle, joined from shoulder to skull. Nowhere near the most gruesome thing John had ever seen, but he did feel sorry for the poor little blighters, particularly if they would have to make their way in a third world country. 

Which made him realise: “How did you know they would be in Bolivia?” 

“That was a guess,” Sherlock replied. “Good one, though. Camels aren’t the only camelids. Alpacas and llamas are part of the same family. They’re eaten in South America, though not as much as they used to be, at least not in Bolivia. The skyrocketing global demand for quinoa has compelled farmers to sell their livestock so they can purchase land to plant it. But with quinoa depleting the soil and no llama droppings to fertilise it, the boon doesn’t last long. Men resort to violence in their desperation for good soil and livelihood, and the country is spiraling towards civil war. _Now are you all going to listen to my mellifluous voice all day, or is someone going to retrieve these twins?_ ” 

The four doctors all looked at each other, as if to say, “Well, it’s not _my_ job to go scampering about, dispatching recovery teams. I’m strictly research.” Finally, Doctor Matting sighed and got out his tablet. “I’ll page an Admin.” He left the room grumbling as he typed his message. 

John got out his own tablet and opened the SCP object tracking application. He punched in **0-8-9**. He would now receive alerts any time there was news about the Eighty-Nine situation. 

“Hungry, John?” 

John looked up. “Starving, actually. Lunch?” 

Sherlock sidled up to John and they walked out together, leaving Doctor Hodgman and Doctor Bellamy behind. John could feel the bubble forming around them, the New Relationship Bubble, where you and the other person shut out everything and everyone around you in favour of gazing into each other’s eyes and finding new and diminishingly subtle ways to touch each other in public. 

But not even the Bubble could keep out the grim magnitude of what had just occurred. John ate in silence. Sherlock did not eat at all. “Are you worried about the event?” Sherlock asked. 

John held a forkful of bland chicken vindaloo in front his face and stared into the middle distance. “If they don’t execute Protocol M8 in time, it could be the end for all of us.” 

Sherlock grinned slyly. “And does that prospect excite you, Doctor Watson?” 

John huffed a little self-conscious laugh, and said, “Eh, nuclear annihilation doesn’t do it for me the way straightforward mortal combat does. Although that might just be because we’re in this well-stocked and reinforced underground bunker, and would probably survive.” 

“Indeed,” Sherlock lamented, “after the blasts kill half the population and the fallout kills the rest, we’ll be left down here to die of boredom.” 

John put down his fork and leaned closer to Sherlock. “Will it really be possible for us to go on like this? I mean us, together, getting our collective kicks from courting death? Always tempting fate in the most dangerous place on Earth?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Have you ever wanted to live any other way?”


	7. Chapter 7

In the middle of the night, John searched about with one hand to find Sherlock under the covers and draw him closer. But when he reached out, he felt a mass of liquefied gore. 

He woke with a start, finding, to his relief, that the light was on and Sherlock was beside him, safe and sound and reading something on his tablet. “You had a bad dream,” Sherlock said.  

“I did, yeah,” John said, rubbing his eyes.

 

*****

  

John recognised very few of the staff members who were crammed into the lecture hall today. More personnel were interested in hearing the presentation than could be accommodated, so priority was given to researchers who specialised in matters extraterrestrial and interdimensional. That is, researchers with whom physicians like John interacted very little. 

When Sherlock appeared on the dais, John’s heart leapt. He had grown to admire Sherlock quite a lot, and to see this many rapt faces peering at him, eagerly anticipating the knowledge he was about to impart, made his heart swell with pride. 

“Good afternoon. I’m Sherlock Holmes and this is seminar will concern SCP Twenty Forty-Three.” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s enough chit-chat. Let’s begin. Two years ago, a spatial anomaly was discovered in an Arctic region that had, until that time, been covered in permafrost. The anomaly takes the form of a dimensional portal, ellipsoid in shape and measuring one point four metres along its horizontal axis and twelve centimetres along its vertical axis. A Class Eight containment chamber was promptly built around this portal, at which time our research began.” 

As Sherlock spoke, relevant images were projected on the screen behind him: Photographs of the anomaly, the location where it was found, and the chamber in which it was contained. 

“Within a month of discovery, we learned that matter is capable of passing through the anomaly into our world when a cylindrical container was sent through it and landed in the chamber. After we had finished with the standard quarantine and decontamination procedures, we found we were able to unscrew one end of the cylinder and retrieve the contents. These consisted of two rolled sheets of a thin, flexible material, upon which glyphs were inscribed. These sheets were handed off to our resident xenolinguists, who thrashed about helplessly with them for sixteen months and were able to translate precisely nothing.” 

Images of the inscribed sheets appeared on the screen. John glanced at them, but he was thinking more about how, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up and his dark curls just a bit too long, Sherlock looked like one of those “cool” uni professors, the sort who would insist you call him by his first name. 

“It was at this point that I joined the Foundation staff. I was given the sheets to examine, and quickly determined that what had misled the xenolinguists was their incorrect assumption that the first message would be a polite greeting. I enlightened them as to the purely mathematical nature of the message, reminding them that mathematics was, literally, the Universal language, and so naturally any _intelligent_ civilization would use it in initial attempts at communication. From there we were able…” 

John couldn’t help but smile at this. _That’s my darling_ , he thought, _being a show-off and treating everyone like they’re idiots_. 

“Further reciprocal delivery of message cylinders resulted in the accumulation of extensive knowledge of the world on the other side of the portal, and its people. They call their world, and their collective race, ‘Trin.’ The planet Trin has an atmosphere somewhat similar to ours, but with a higher proportion of argon. The Trin themselves are humanoid, and they claim their civilisation is about sixteen thousand years old. 

“The Trin’s advancements in astronomy, mathematics, engineering, and high-energy physics surpass our own by a tiny margin. With the help of the Trin, the Foundation was able to reverse-engineer a device which will more securely contain [Six Thirty-Four](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-634). So we thank them for that. 

“The Trin also made us aware of their tremendous enthusiasm for the arts, with a particularly deep cultural investment in music, poetry, and literature. They delivered to us over a hundred cylinders filled with, according to them, their most beloved creative works.” 

John could sense every heart in the room racing at the thought of this. The wisdom, the data, to which they were about to be granted access. Imagine, whole libraries of new poetry, enlightening novels, and unheard music, all offering a window into a newly-discovered sapient society. 

“I took it upon myself to absorb every word and every note of the works the Trin offered, and I can tell you that they are _awful_. I mean, just the worst garbage one could be subjected to. What the Trin presented to us as the greatest novel ever produced by their civilisation is the tale of a love triangle between three vacant adolescents whose tragic ending is intended to be deeply meaningful but was entirely lost on myself, who could not have acquired any sympathy for these vacuous, one-dimensional characters if my existence depended upon it. 

“If I were to recite a Trin poem in the presence of a rabid wolverine, I would be prosecuted for cruelty to animals. As for their music, I can only say this: since I was hired by the Foundation, I have heard many research assistants say, of various SCP objects, ‘Can’t we just launch it into the sun?’ And each time, I patiently explained why, based on the known or unknown properties of these objects and the Foundation’s resources and ethical guidelines, that is never really a viable option. However, having heard the recordings of Trin’s most popular musical artists, I now appreciate the seemingly interminable enthusiasm for that particular method of disposal.” 

By this time, John was choking back laughter, whilst his colleagues were frozen in open-mouthed shock. 

“My recommendation,” Sherlock said, “is that we divert all the resources necessary to close up the portal and prevent any more toxic drivel from making its way into our dimension, or failing that, we should send a capsule of the common cold through the portal and hope that it proves catastrophically fatal to the entire Trin race.” 

He finished by saying, “Thank you for your time,” and walked off the stage. John stayed in his seat as the other attendees filed out in silence, and Sherlock met him there, asking, “How did I do?” 

“No one in the audience will ever forget it,” John said diplomatically, still trying not to laugh. 

 

*****

 

It didn’t always have to be death-defiance and narrow escapes. Just watching Sherlock get up there and give a bait-and-switch lecture like that was enough to make John giddy with vicarious recalcitrance. It made him feel a bit like the little dog from the Looney Tune: _Whaddaya wanna do today, Sherlock? Huh?_ Whenever he and Sherlock were together, and someone scolded them, “This is a serious situation, you need to take this seriously,” they would immediately burst into gales of laughter. 

Near-death experiences led to crazed, adrenalin-fueled sex. Hilariously mutinous lectures led to giggly, playful sex. Those were two rules of conduct that John and Sherlock were happy to adhere to. Everything they were struggling to do just made them laugh harder. When Sherlock was squirming so much that John was having trouble unbuttoning his shirt, John wasn’t frustrated in the least; it brought him to tears, he found it so funny. Eventually Sherlock just pulled the shirt over his head, so they could continue. 

Naked, his face aching from smiling, John patted the bed to indicate that Sherlock should lie down, and after that flopped down next to him facing the opposite direction. He lay on his side with his head propped on one hand, leaning in to take Sherlock’s prick into his mouth, but Sherlock grabbed John around the ribs and hauled him on top. “Oh, well alright then,” John grunted. 

It was so wet and hot in Sherlock’s mouth, and John wasn’t doing a good job of keeping his thrusts polite and shallow, but Sherlock was making no noises of protest or discomfort, and was in fact grabbing John’s arse to pull him further down, so John happily gave him a bit more. In the meantime, he was doing his best to give Sherlock the best of his technique with his own mouth, though Sherlock proved very distracting. He reasoned that at least the vibration of his moaning around Sherlock’s cock must have been enhancing the experience for him. 

John scooped his arms underneath Sherlock’s thighs, pulling them up and apart and compelling Sherlock to tilt his pelvis, so that John could reach to rim him. He thought it was the least he could do, at that point; anyone who was willing to be underneath in a sixty-nine deserved to have their arsehole licked for their trouble. In bed, he was a giver, and he didn’t like to take more than he was receiving. And he knew he was being demanding, so he wanted to give even more. 

But it wasn’t long before he felt Sherlock reciprocating. Sherlock gave John the circle of his fist to thrust into and treated John’s arsehole to a warm, wet bath and a nuzzle. That was too much for him to concentrate on, whilst he was trying to please Sherlock. “Enough,” he said before long. “Put it back in your mouth.” He looked down, between their bodies, to watch it, and he saw Sherlock sneaking a fingertip inside him instead. Just enough to make him feel intruded upon, in a lovely way. 

This time, he knew (hoped) it was alright to plunge his cock straight down into Sherlock’s mouth, to just piston up and down, with no angles or tricks. It made him feel powerful, and he quickly put his load right down Sherlock’s throat. Before he’d even finished groaning and grunting his way through it, he put Sherlock’s cock back in his own mouth and worked him feverishly. He was worried for a moment that he was being too tedious and sloppy, but from where he was, he could see Sherlock’s toes curl and his thighs begin to quake. Moments afterward, Sherlock followed him, not making any effort not to thrust too hard. John had Sherlock so deep in his mouth, he didn’t taste a drop of come. 

John rolled to the side, panting. Then things got quiet for a while. It hurt to giggle now, John’s abs were so sore. They drifted into sound sleep, sprawled that way on the bed, John’s cheek against Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock’s hand across John’s belly.

 

*****

 

**AUTHOR’S NOTE:** In this chapter, “SCP-2043” is based closely on [SCP-1322](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-1322). You should go read the Containment and Observation log for that entry. It’s more interesting than what I wrote. 


	8. Chapter 8

Not only was John expecting that the inquiry into the incident with Twenty-Nine would result in some sort of reprimand, he was hoping for it. How wonderful it would be, to be demoted to Level 1, ordered to sweep floors or serve meatloaf, to never be compelled to write up a necropsy of an SCP again. Surely he could still find the time to run around with Sherlock, solving mysteries and dodging monster attacks. (Demotion to Class D was a possibility, but highly improbable…or so John told himself.) 

To his dismay, Administrator Corbitt took no disciplinary action against him. No amount of digging could turn up any evidence that the Daughter of Shadows had re-manifested in another body, which led to the conclusion that John had eliminated her entirely. And yes, he had done it with a contraband firearm, but hell, he was O-23. Among the O-23 personnel, carrying a forbidden weapon – one with no anomalous properties – was considered laughably unambitious. John was going to have to transgress harder than that if he wanted out. 

Oh, the Administrator gave them a bit of a talking-to, though. John arrived in Corbitt’s office somewhat apprehensive, until Sherlock showed up moments later, and he felt instantly reassured and confident. _Ah, good, the other half of me is here_ , was the thought. Sherlock’s presence always improved any situation he was in considerably. 

“I’m going to have to ask you to hand over the unregistered firearm that is in your possession,” Corbitt said. 

Before John could concede, Sherlock blurted, “He can’t. I got rid of it.” 

John kept his mouth shut. Corbitt said, “What do you mean, got rid of it?” 

“I thought John was going to get in trouble, so I panicked and—” 

“That’s not what I mean. Nobody ‘gets rid’ of anything in U-62. Every speck of refuse is searched, in case a containment breach has gone unnoticed. The gun would have been found days ago.” 

“Well I didn’t just _bin_ it,” Sherlock sneered. “I put it in the [Hungry Bag](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-101).” 

The Administrator narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, and swiveled in his chair to consult his computer terminal for a few seconds. “There’s no record of you entering the Hungry Bag’s containment room at any time.” 

“I bribed a lab assistant to take the gun with him when he was depositing the refuse from [Thirty-Five’s](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-035) containment.” 

Corbitt seemed to understand, at that point, that he was going to have to be satisfied with Sherlock’s assertions, or else he would be here all day as Sherlock plugged one narrative leak after another. “Sherlock, I know some of the staff think you’re really ‘cool,’ but I don’t like you. You’re a troublemaker, and there is no place for troublemakers at the Foundation. Not on this side of the security doors, anyway.” 

Sherlock flinched. “I understand perfectly.” 

John looked at Sherlock, puzzled. He had no idea Sherlock was capable of being so compliant and deferential, even for the duration of three words. 

Corbitt went on. “One more transgression…” 

“Please, Doctor Corbitt, I understand.” 

“…and I do not doubt that you will find your old containment chamber much less comfortable than Doctor Watson’s bed.” 

John sputtered, “Doctor Corbitt, that is hardly appropr—What do you mean containment chamber?” 

Corbitt looked from John to Sherlock and back again, and it was his turn to be uncharacteristic: he appeared somewhat cowed by the realisation that he had just made a terrible _faux pas_. 

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him out of his chair. “If there’s nothing further, we’ll take our leave, Doctor Corbitt.” 

As they left the Administrator’s office, John snapped, “What did he mean about a containment chamber? Sherlock?” 

Sherlock sighed. “Let’s have some privacy.” He led John down the corridor and in the direction of the dormitories. 

John’s pulse was pounding, though not in the way that he enjoyed. It was accompanied by a faint nausea; he had felt this before, whenever a lover had said “There’s something I need to tell you.” But this was sure to prove a bit more dramatic than “I’ve met someone else.” 

Safely ensconced in John’s little room, Sherlock sat the two of them down and looked into John’s eyes. “The story I told you, about my helping with the Morgue. It was a lie. Or some of it was. I did do consulting work for Scotland Yard, and I was asked to come and take a look at the Morgue. But MI5 didn’t tell the Foundation about me. The Foundation showed up to investigate the Morgue, whilst Scotland Yard was there, and a member of the hospital staff whom I was interviewing accidentally revealed my true identity. I was detained by the Foundation, and they designated me SCP-2218. ‘The Detective.’ I’ve been here ever since, despite some serious effort. I was always trying to escape; that’s how I knew that Twenty-Nine was using the Obsidian Knife to disguise herself. She is intelligent. Almost as intelligent as I am. And that knife is how I tried to escape, the third time. 

“The Administrators grew tired of my constantly trying to flee, so I offered them a deal: I would stay put in U-62 and stop causing trouble if the Foundation would let me reside here as an employee rather than as a prisoner. They understood that my powers of insight made me a valuable asset, and they accepted. They do still track my every movement, and they’ll never allow me to leave U-62. But I’m satisfied with my life here now. It keeps me even busier than London did…though I do miss London.” 

John’s stomach was lurching. Sherlock’s explanation prompted more questions than it answered. There were plenty of humans contained at U-62, and like Sherlock, most of them appeared perfectly harmless. But they were all locked behind lead plates, steel doors, and faraday cages for a reason. “So what _are_ you?” he asked. “What makes you an SCP?” 

“I know what you’re thinking of now, and it’s not as bad as all that, so please calm down.” Sherlock paused, trying to reduce his explanation to the simplest possible. Finally, he stated. “I am a being of pure energy.” 

John couldn’t help but snort at this statement. “What, like on _Star Trek_?” 

“Why does everyone always—yes. Like on _Star Trek_.” 

“But you look normal.” 

Sherlock gestured vaguely at himself. “I’m imbued with a powerful perception filter. When people look at me, I am making them see a human. The details they fill in themselves, so everyone sees me a bit differently.” 

“So how come I can touch you?” 

“That’s what makes the perception filter so powerful. You are so convinced that you are seeing a person, that when you…” Sherlock held out his arm. “Here, touch my arm.” 

John reached out and put his fingers on Sherlock’s arm, just above the wrist. “You aren’t touching my arm. Not really. You see the arm there, and your brain is so certain that there is an arm there, that it stops your hand when it believes you’re making contact with it.” 

“You’re winding me up. There is no way…I mean, an arm, maybe. But the _details_. I mean…” He lowered his voice self-consciously. “I have touched every part of you. I have worshipped your body. When I put your fingers in my mouth, I could _taste_ you.” 

Sherlock shrugged, as if to apologise. “You saw what you wanted to see. You tasted what you wanted to taste.” 

All this time, John had thought people were snickering at the two of them because they made an odd couple, not because one of them was a fucking hologram. “Why did you never bring this up? It didn’t occur to you that I might want to know?” 

“At first, I thought you did know. And then, when it became clear that you didn’t…I couldn’t bring myself to tell you.” 

“I don’t believe you. This is some sort of test, right? Who put you up to this?” 

Sherlock picked up John’s tablet. He opened it and selected the camera application. “Take a photograph of me.” He handed the tablet to John, and stood in front of the bureau with his arms slightly away from his body. “Just an ordinary photograph.” 

John hesitated, thinking that by going along with this request, he was only digging himself deeper into the prank, letting himself look even more a fool. He held the tablet up and pushed the shutter icon. 

When the resulting image appeared, John saw only the corner where Sherlock had been, though there was some distortion in front of the bureau. It looked as if John had moved the camera, and simultaneously allowed a bright light to cause a lens flare. 

So this is what Sherlock actually was. This is what the surveillance staff saw him giggling with in the corridors. Gazing at the photograph, John pictured himself the way a security camera might have captured him as he made love to Sherlock, writhing and humping the air comically in the midst of some fog. “How could you humiliate me like this?” he said. “Does everyone else know? Has everyone else in U-62 been laughing up their sleeves at me taking a cloud to bed?” 

“It’s not like that at all.” Sherlock took John’s hand in both of his, and pressed the palm to John’s heart. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else sees or thinks. Everything you felt in _here_ was real. And I experienced it too. How much more have you enjoyed life, these last few months that we’ve been together? Well, I felt the same way. Your energy invigorates my own life forces.” 

“Ugh, don’t say that. That’s awful.” John reeled away, like he was going to be ill. “Get out. Get out and don’t talk to me again.” 

Sherlock shrank back towards the door. John watched his hand on the door handle, thought of how it wasn’t really a hand, how the hands that had been on him hadn’t really been hands.


	9. Chapter 9

**Item #:** SCP-2218

 **Object Class:** Euclid (Status will revert to Keter, with all corresponding containment procedures, if privileges are abused.)

 **Special Containment Procedures:** SCP-2218 is confined to Facility U-62, with a special security grade (Class F: Special Advisor), allowing it access to all research labs, records storage, and communal social areas. However, SCP-2218 understands that this access is a privilege and can be revoked by any staff member of clearance Level 3 or higher at any time. Any staff badge or identification that SCP-2218 is provided may not be reliably perceived, so SCP-2218 must be confined to its quarters when privileges have been withdrawn (see Document 2218-3b) and anyone interacting with it should consult its file before proceeding.

SCP-2218 should be provided quarters in the staff dormitory, which cannot be locked from the inside or outside. Food and bedding is not a requirement for SCP-2218 to thrive. SCP-2218 is to be provided with any reasonable requested item, so long as possession of such does not does not contradict any permanent or temporary restrictions placed on it at that time.

Tracking software for SCP-2218’s unique and invariable energy signature has been installed on all computers accessible by staff of security Level 2 or higher, but two dedicated personnel should monitor its location at all times. SCP-2218 cannot pass through solid objects, and as such is no more difficult to contain than any corporeal being of superhuman intelligence.

Although SCP-2218’s object class has been downgraded and it has not harmed anyone or attempted to escape since ██/█/████, anyone interacting with it must remember that it is extremely resourceful and pragmatic, and may yet threaten the security of any number of persons, objects, communities, or infrastructures, in the pursuit of knowledge, its own amusement, or both.

 **Discovery:** During the investigation of SCP-022 in London, UK, SCP-2218 was accidentally discovered by a blinded hospital staff member, who detected a physiological anomaly in a consultant who interviewed him, and mistook the consultant for a SCP-022-1. Once the containment of SCP-022 was complete, subject was removed to ████████, where it was interviewed. Detective Inspector █████ was sometimes present, and sometimes interviewed separately. He corroborated all of subject’s claims.

Subject identified itself by the name “Sherlock Holmes.” A Google search for this name turned up a blog, _The Science of Deduction_ , whose contents corresponded with subject’s self-description. Subject explained that while it had no legitimate means of employment, it occupied itself as a “consulting detective” for the Metropolitan Police. Upon hearing this, Dr H█████ remarked, “But the police don’t consult amateurs.” Subject then whispered something in Dr H█████’s ear, to which Dr H█████ replied, “How could you possibly have known…!” Subject said, “You were correct. The police don’t consult amateurs.” [Dr H█████’s subsequent leave of absence is scheduled to end ██/█/████.]

When asked, if it received no income from his occupation, how it fed, clothed, and housed itself, subject replied that it had no need of food or sleep, and any other accommodations or accoutrements it required were provided by people who owed it favours.

Subject was insufficiently candid about its true origin and intentions, and so was detained and transported to Facility U-62, where it was given its SCP number, and after further study, has since been housed permanently at that location. **  
**

 **Description:** SCP-2218 appears to be a human male in his early thirties, and does not object to being casually referred to as human, male, or both. However, SCP-2218’s appearance is the result of a perception filter, which is integrated into its physiology.

When introduced to SCP-2218, people describe its appearance as “odd” but not so bizarre as to attract attention. When asked to draw a portrait of SCP-2218, no two people portray the same facial features. When photographed or videorecorded, SCP-2218 will appear as a nebulous, luminescent cloud. SCP-2218 will not provide an answer when asked if this is its “true” appearance; whether this is ignorance or mere stubbornness on its part cannot be determined.

Investigation performed at ████████ and later at U-62 indicates that all people who physically interact with SCP-2218 whilst looking at it are entirely certain that they are interacting with a humanoid; when they touch it, its bodily structure and skin surface conform to human standards. Thus was it able to integrate into human society. However, when SCP-2218 is touched by someone who cannot see it and has never seen it before, they report the sensation of touching, or placing their hands entirely inside, a collection of vague appendages and masses whose texture and temperature constantly fluctuates. Some of these reports have included such terms as “disturbing” or “unearthly,” however, no subsequent psychiatric evaluation has yet concluded that anyone who physically interacts with SCP-2218 suffers any deleterious mental or physiological consequences. [The incident with Dr H█████ notwithstanding.]

Though visual recordings seem to indicate that SCP-2218 is an incorporeal entity, it is tangible enough that it cannot penetrate solid objects. SCP-2218 can observe, hold, manipulate, and interact with items or persons in its immediate vicinity, (see Document 2218-3 and its use of SCP-034). However, it has not demonstrated any telekinetic ability.

SCP-2218 is acutely observant and insightful, seemingly beyond human ability. It can come to completely accurate conclusions about persons or objects present, and recent events in the area it occupies, through astonishing leaps of logic. When asked how it was able to identify and predict human behaviour so accurately, SCP-2218 replied, “I simply observe.” SCP-2218 refuses to acknowledge whether its skill is an inherent part of its race or origin, or if it depends on telepathy.

Although SCP-2218 can be relentlessly narcissistic and anti-social, it also exudes a powerful charisma, and as soon as it arrived at U-62, staff members made informal approaches, asking SCP-2218 to do its “trick.” Fascination with it continues, although it has become more subdued, as SCP-2218 demonstrates no apparent ability to “suffer fools gladly” and has upset some staff with its revelations (particularly those who refer to his ability as “a trick”).  

SCP-2218 continues to refuse to explain where he is from, how he got to this planet and/or dimension, and what his current purpose is. He claims he has no intentions aside from his continued pursuit of his “science of deduction.” Senior Staff suggested the use of SCP-███ and SCP-███ to glean the truth from him, but SCP-2218 possessed too little physical tangibility for the devices to be effective. Attempts to acquire information by other means, specifically with [SCP-041](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-041) and [SCP-067](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-067), also produced no result.

 

 **Document 2218-3:** Security logs for SCP-2218

█/█/████: SCP-2218 is given SCP-067 to write with, in an attempt to glean information about his origins. He begins writing, _I was born in a house my father built_ … and continues writing Richard Nixon’s memoirs, apparently from memory, until he is instructed to stop. While there is a possibility that SCP-2218 and Richard Nixon are the same entity, it is more likely that SCP-2218 is merely immune to SCP-067’s effects, and possesses an odd sense of humor.

██/██/████: SCP-2218 is exposed to [SCP-031](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-031). Is indifferent to it.

█/██/████: SCP-2218 is exposed to SCP-035. Is indifferent to it.

█/█/████: SCP-2218 is exposed to [SCP-071](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-071). Is indifferent. Asks if it could be allowed to see something interesting for a change.

██/█/████: A staff member with security clearance 2/2218 hears SCP-2218 before he sees it. Based on what SCP-2218 says, 2/2218 believes that the being in his presence is actually a Level 4 researcher. Under this guise, and with 2/2218’s assistance, SCP-2218 acquires a dozen instances of [SCP-133](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-133). SCP-2218 makes it through six interior walls before the personnel assigned to monitor its signature recognise the anomaly and recapture it.

█/█/████: SCP-2218 leads the two guards assigned to it on a chase, eventually luring them into [SCP-167](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-167). SCP-2218 emerges ten minutes later with one of the guard’s magnetic key cards, which he uses to access ███████████ ██████ before capture. The current location of the guards is unknown.

█/█/████: SCP-2218 steals SCP-034 and uses it to disguise himself as Dr ██████. Its plan fails when it underestimates the amount of dermis needed to time its escape, and is captured after having been delayed at a security checkpoint. SCP-2218 refuses to explain how it managed to bypass SCP-034’s security protocols, but offers to cease all further escape attempts if the Foundation can keep its mind constantly and satisfactorily occupied so long as it resides at a Foundation facility.

█/██/████: Discussion with staff who have had extended contact with SCP-2218 confirm that it enjoys solving puzzles, and when not deliberately kept occupied by staff, will resort to reciting aloud observations about anyone in its presence, some of which are unflattering or unsettling. (See document ███-██-█ on the dismissal of Dr ███ and the re-evaluation of the containment of [SCP-446](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-446).)

11/12/████: SCP-2218’s special security classification is instated. No further escape attempts have been reported; however, SCP-2218 has occasionally been reprimanded and some or all privileges temporarily revoked for misbehaviour. Document 2218-4 details Containment Procedures which have undergone revision due to SCP-2218’s actions (and later, its suggestions).

█/██/████: SCP-2218 is encouraged to work alongside [SCP-030](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-030), in the hopes that SCP-2218 will prove as cooperative, helpful, and well-liked by the staff. SCP-2218 refuses to collaborate with SCP-030 in any way, and refers to SCP-030 as “a toffee-nosed twat.” SCP-030 has indicated that it possesses no negative feelings towards SCP-2218, and reports that when it observes SCP-2218, it sees the luminescent cloud visible in photographs.

█/██/████: SCP-2218 requests an email address so that he might communicate with other staff via the intranet. (Denied.)

██/█/████: SCP-2218 is shown the time-lapsed satellite footage of the structure being built around [SCP-064](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-064). It correctly predicts the location of SCP-064 within 6 metres. (The computer simulation took six additional hours and was off by 8.5 metres.)

6/5/████: SCP-2218 completes SCP-030’s 18-week seminar on the “Zephyr” language. It criticises the gaps in Zephyr’s vocabulary, remarking that as the language has no word for “berk,” it reduces SCP-2218’s ability to address SCP-030 in that language.

██/█/████: SCP-2218 asks to be designated [SCP-048](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-048), “to see what might happen.” Request denied.

██/█/████: SCP-2218 approaches [SCP-066](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-066). SCP-066 asks, “Are you Eric?” SCP-2218 replies, “Yes, yes I am.” When SCP-2218 attempts to pick up SCP-066, [DATA EXPUNGED]

██/█/████: SCP-2218 points out that [SCP-168](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-168) also asks for “Eric.” (See Documents 2218-3b and 2218-4.)

██/█/████:  SCP-2218 is caught playing _Zork_ on [SCP-062](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-062). It claims it was “just brushing up on my Sumerian.” Confined to quarters unless its presence is requested by a Level 4 or higher staff member. **Addendum:** All privileges reinstated when SCP-2218 is the first to notice that the rate of growth of the black patches on SCP-029’s skin is increasing.

█/██/████: D-28464, after being exposed to [SCP-078](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-078), reports that he cannot read some of the extra sentences he perceives because “half the words are in messy cursive and I can’t make them out.” SCP-2218 remembered that D-15553, who had been terminated after being exposed to SCP-078, wrote in an unusual mix of cursive and print. Additional metrics are now in place to track the incorporation and proliferation of victims into SCP-078’s effects.

██/█/████: SCP-2218 is asked to help find a way to extract compounds from [SCP-088](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-088) which may posses strategic value. SCP-2218 refuses on the grounds that “I am not Doctor Strangelove.” Privileges revoked until SCP-2218 agrees to contribute to the project. SCP-2218 capitulates after three days. Within ninety minutes of entering SCP-088’s containment chamber, SCP-2218 safely exits holding a vial of corrosive compound, which he hands over to Dr ████.The vial immediately [DATA EXPUNGED]. Since this incident, SCP-2218 is not to be coerced into participating in any project which aims to yield destructive or weaponised materials.

██/█/████: Dr ████████, the senior researcher at Outpost Delta, requests that SCP-2218 be assigned to the decoding of [SCP-270](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-270)’s recorded output. Request granted by Dr Light, citing evidence that SCP-2218 will be less susceptible to the morale-destroying effects of SCP-270’s output. SCP-2218 begins pursuit of decryption in its spare time. To date, it has turned over the following content:

\- Troop movements along the ███-████████ border, which suggest that a local insurgent terrorist cult are aware of the existence of ████████████████ and might attempt to acquire it.

\- Forty-eight seconds of what the human ear perceives as silence, SCP-2218 successfully transcribed. Based on the content of this segment, Dr ████ now believes further communication with SCP-███ is possible.

\- A recipe for “cookie-dough hummus,” which, like its namesake, has a garbanzo bean base, but which also includes peanut butter and chocolate chips, and is eaten with graham crackers instead of pita bread. It proved the biggest hit at U-62’s Christmas party the following week.

\- A 312-word prophecy detailing an XK-class scenario, which turned up word-for-word two weeks later in [SCP-152](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-152).

 

 **Document 2218-3b:** Current restrictions on SCP-2218

SCP-2218 understands that his privileges are conditional upon his cooperation with SCP guidelines and staff. Anyone tasked with monitoring SCP-2218 should stay up to date on all SCP objects with which he is not allowed to interact. This list has been known to change hourly.

If confronted about any activity he is engaged in or any SCP object he is interacting with, SCP-2218 must provide a legitimate reason for his behaviour or the interaction. “It’s for an experiment” should not be regarded as sufficiently legitimate. However, SCP-2218’s sarcasm or bad manners should not be interpreted as non-compliance, and anyone considering disciplinary action should do so based on the content of SCP-2218’s conversation, not his manner.

[ _It seems insubordinate, but it isn’t really._ – Memo from Dr Blevins]

SCP-2218 is permanently disallowed from interacting with the following SCPs: 034, 066, ███, [166](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-166), ███, ████, ████.

In light of numerous reports of suspicious and/or mischievous behaviour, SCP-2218’s interaction with the following SCPs must now be supervised by a Level 3 or higher staff member: [038](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-038), 101, [113](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-113), [157](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-157), [216](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-216), [344](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-344), [504](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-504), ████, ████.

SCP-2218 is not allowed any contact with Dr Hooper, as she seems particularly susceptible to his “charms” and is suspected of having provided him access to SCP-034.

SCP-2218 is not allowed outside U-62, and may not accompany any staff member to offsite SCPs.

[Memo from Dr Blevins: _SCP-2218 wishes access to[SCP-028](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-028). Am I really the only one who is dying to know what might result?_

Reply from Dr Light: _Dr Blevins, in light of the events detailed in document EL-028-1125, you may want to be more conscientious about the hyperbolic terms you use to describe your curiosity._ ]

 

 **Document 2218-4:** Containment Procedures modified because of SCP-2218

█/██/████: Written permission of two Level 4 staff members must be acquired before gaining access to SCP-133.

█/█/████: Code on the combination lock securing SCP-167 must be changed to something other than “1-2-3-4-5.”

█/█/████: Level 3 personnel may no longer access SCP-034.


	10. Chapter 10

John slept alone for the first time in weeks. He woke up cradling his tablet in one arm, with Sherlock’s file still open. Sleep had overcome him in the small hours of the morning, as he lay in bed trying to think of what he was going to do next. He woke to the sound of the tablet bleeping, and decided aloud, to himself, “Just crack on, I suppose.” 

Specifically, his tablet had emitted the bleep that indicated he’d just had something added to his schedule. He opened the tablet, swiped Sherlock’s file aside, and tapped the alert on the top of the home screen. It took him to that morning’s calendar. “ULTRASOUND. CHAPMAN, J. 10 AM.” 

There must have been a mistake. He knew that Julie Chapman was pregnant, everyone did. Hers was the first pregnancy at U-62. But diagnostic imaging was the domain of Doctor Trudeau. John sent an email saying as much to the clerk at the medical centre, and rose to dress. 

 

****

 

He intended to eat breakfast alone in the cafeteria. But Mike was already there, and when John claimed an empty table, Mike moved to sit with him. “No Sherlock today? Had a bit of a domestic, I’ll wager. You look like you’ve hardly slept.” 

John said nothing. His tablet chirped: it was a reply from the surgery: _Trudeau’s got the flu. Sorry, not everything can be chasing monsters around with your boyfriend and punching demigods in the face_. 

“I’ve heard he’s a difficult one,” Mike went on. “But it seems like you and he got on famously, so I’m sure it’ll work itself out.” 

John didn’t seem to notice that Mike had spoken. 

A pudgy blonde man ambled by, looking only slightly less despondent than John, and Mike called out, “Hey, it’s [Grabnok the Destroyer](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-507)! How’ve you been, mate? Any good jumps lately?” 

The man shook his head. “Not really. I went to the dimension that has the other half of [Josie](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-529). They’re not nearly as fond of her over there.” 

“Ha! Well, naturally not.” As the man continued on his way, Mike called after him, “Take it easy, Grabnok!” 

John poked absently at his porridge. Despite having taken a couple of bites, he still felt a consuming emptiness inside. A swimmy little suspicion dawned inside him, that the “bond” that Sherlock had told him they shared was parasitic. He pictured an alternate version of himself years in the future, still with Sherlock, blissfully ignorant and slowly shriveling, no longer able to wrest himself from Sherlock’s blood-sucking grip. How else could one explain becoming so attached to a wisp of fog? 

“Did you know about Sherlock?” John asked Mike. “About what he is?” 

“I wasn’t made aware of it until after you and he…got together. I’m certain I was the last to know. And I only found out because I asked a lab technician why everyone giggled about you and speculated on how you and he…did it.” 

After Sherlock’s revelation last night, discovering that his co-workers had hypothesised extensively about his sex life seemed hardy humiliating at all by comparison. “If anyone else asks,” he spat, “you can tell them it was actually surprisingly conventional.” He scooped up his nearly-untouched bowl as he stood. Just before trudging away, he leaned in and said, “By the way, don’t feel bad about it. You _weren’t_ the last to know.”

 

*****

 

Julie Chapman greeted John with a wide, genuine smile. Next to her was her partner, a lab assistant named Christiansen, or no, wait, it was Christian…something. John couldn’t quite recall. He was looking apprehensive in the way that men do when they’re about to get their first glimpse of their unborn child. 

“You’ve probably been told that Doctor Trudeau is out today, so I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for me,” John said. 

Julie tossed her head to one side. “Oh, that’s just fine!” 

“It’s an honor,” Christian stuttered. “I mean, uh, I read the report you wrote up, about your adventure with the Eyes In The Dark.” 

John tried to smile politely. “Sherlock should really all get the credit for that one.” 

“Ha, well, I’ve met Sherlock. And the way you wrote him was genius. It made him seem almost…bearable to be around.” 

“That’s very kind. But _I’m_ not really the important person in the room today.” John nodded toward Julie’s swollen belly. “So why don’t we meet him, or her?” 

John turned off half the lights, so that they could more easily view the monitor. As he did so, Julie pulled her shirt up and exposed her belly, saying, “We’re hoping for a boy. Chris wants a soccer player.” 

Christian blushed. “She said he’s quite the kicker, is all. Never stops.” 

The bottle of conducting gel rested in a little heated cradle, so that it wouldn’t be cold when applied. But when John squirted it on, Julie wrinkled her nose. “I think it feels even weirder when it’s warm than when it’s cold,” she chuckled. 

John took up the probe, and said to Julie, “I will be applying a bit of pressure with this wand, but it shouldn’t be painful.” (He never said _probe_ in front of patients.) “But let me know right away if it is.” 

Julie nodded. She was quiet now, her eyes fixed on the monitor as it displayed an animated haze. 

Christian said, “I can’t see a thing. Can you guys really make out where the baby is?” 

“Not quite yet. It always starts out as a blur, but as you move the wand, you get an idea of how the baby is positioned, and then you can find the best angle to view it. You’re twenty weeks along, yes?” 

“Nineteen and a half.” 

“Right. So this might take just a few minutes.” As John manipulated the probe, a tiny, indistinct human came into view, wriggling rhythmically on the monitor. He angled the probe to capture the desired images. 

Then he stopped abruptly. _No_ , he thought. _God no, not today. Can I not have just **one** day_ … He switched the probe to his other hand, and reached up to slowly tilt the monitor away from Julie and Christian’s view. “If you’ll pardon me for just a moment, I’m just going to move this so I can get a better look. I’ll put it right back so you can see it in just one second.” John silently watched the monitor for several more minutes, and his expression kept Julie and Christian from protesting. 

“Julie,” John said, and swallowed reflexively, choking on her name; he hadn’t realised his mouth had gone dry. “You’ve never been to the fourth floor, have you?” 

“No, I don’t have clearance to go down there. I’m just the nutritionist, I stay on the first floor. Why? Is there a problem?” 

“I’m on the fourth floor all the time,” Christian volunteered. 

Julie’s cheerfulness vanished. “Is there something wrong with my baby?” 

John said, to Christian, “Have you ever worked with that, er, virus, the one that causes supernumerary…” 

“Five Eighty-Four, yeah,” Christian said, and then indicated to John with a wide, alarmed gaze that he didn’t need to be told anything more. 

“What does ‘supernumerary’ mean?” Julie was panicking now, her legs kicking as she tried to lean to see the monitor. “Doctor Watson, why won’t you let me see my baby?” 

“Julie, I need you to calm down now.” John pressed a button on the monitor to freeze the image, and a second button to queue it into the electronic archive. But before he could shut the screen off, Julie sat up and lurched forward to tilt it back in her direction. The colour drained from her face when she saw it. She did not need a technician’s trained eye to identify all of her baby’s limbs. She began to scream, a continuous, piercing wail that brought two nurses into the room. 

“Listen, Julie,” John shouted over her. “Julie! Listen! We can take care of this. Julie, you need to calm down.” 

“GET IT OUT OF ME,” Julie shrieked. 

“We can do that. We can schedule you for–” 

Julie grabbed John by the collar of his lab coat and shook him, hard. “I WANT IT OUT OF ME RIGHT NOW.” 

With Christian’s help, John managed to loosen Julie’s grip and lower her down onto the exam table. “Okay, we can–we can–Julie! We can do that. We’ll just–” 

“NOW! I HAVE TO GET IT OUT RIGHT NOW!” She snatched a biro from the pocket of John’s coat and plunged it into her belly, over and over. John clasped her wrist, but her strength seemed superhuman, and he could not prevent her from continuing, mechanically. 

“I need diazepam in here!” John shouted to the nurses. 

Blood spurted and oozed from her wounds, and a strong smell indicated to John that she had perforated her lower intestines. Despite the collective efforts of John, Christian, and a nurse, she continued to clutch the now astoundingly septic biro, and delivered several more stabs to her abdomen whenever she managed to get free of the restraining hands. Only when the second nurse gave her five ccs of diazepam, then an additional five, did her limbs finally slacken. 

Christian collapsed, wailing, over Julie’s limp, soiled form. John’s eyes stung with the blood that had sprayed into them as Julie had flailed.

 


	11. Chapter 11

John marched into the infirmary’s shower facility, pushing past the rattled nurses and waving off their pleas as he went.

“Doctor Watson, you should see the phlebotomist immediately for a–”

“Later.”

“Doctor Watson, the Administrator is going to want a report on–”

“I said _later_!”

His next stop, once he’d got cleaned up, was the nearest computer lab. Sherlock’s file had indicated that there was software installed on every computer in U-62 that tracked his movements. He thought he might need to enlist the help of one of the computer boffins to help him locate the application, but as soon as he logged in, right there on the desktop was a bright yellow icon, labeled **getsherlock.exe**. He clicked on it, and a 3D model of U-62 came up, with a little red sphere pulsing in one of the first-floor audio labs.

 

*****

 

Now, in the first-floor surveillance station, a dozen guards and technicians were gathered around the security camera feeds. They watched John enter the audio lab. They watched a sphere of cloudy light follow John back out into the corridor. They watched John stand very close to the cloud and speak to it. They watched the cloud envelop John, whilst John put his arms out in a seemingly one-sided hug. Some of the viewers were holding out their hands in a “gimme” gesture, and the rest were muttering, “Wait for it…”

One of the guards spoke up. “I don’t even get why Doctor Watson would be into Sherlock. I mean, he’s kind of dumpy.”

“Dumpy? What the hell are you talking about? He looks like a surfer, like a beach bum.”

“It doesn’t matter what _we_ think he looks like. We have no idea what John sees.”

“But why Sherlock at all? Does Doctor Watson have, like, ‘ghost fever’ or something?”

“Dude, don’t say ‘ghost fever,’ it’s racist.”

“What, racist against ghosts?”

“Shh!” One guard pointed to the feed that monitored the corridor where Sherlock and John had been talking. As they proceeded down the corridor, the guard’s finger followed them to the edge of the screen, then moved his hand down to the bottom row of monitors, where he indicated with a sweep of his index finger the precise point where the two would reappear. In suspenseful silence, they watched John and Sherlock make their way to John’s room. The moment the two of them stepped inside, and the door shut behind them, the room erupted in a mixture of cheers and groans. “Pay up!” one howled. “Pay! Up! Motha! Fucka!”

The “ghost fever” guard handed a technician a twenty dollar bill, and the technician shook his head as he smiled. “You just don’t understand, dude. You and I, we wait for the nurses and lab assistants to get desperate so we can snag a little companionship and forget this hellhole we live in for fifteen minutes. Then we hope we don’t accidentally make eye contact in the cafeteria later. But those two? They’re in _love_.”

 

*****

 

Safely inside his room, John continued saying all the things that Sherlock had stopped him saying whilst they were in the corridor, lest he be heard. “I’m sorry. I feel like I can’t say it enough times.”

“It’s fine. Your reaction was perfectly understandable.”

“You’re the only thing that’s keeping me sane here. Except…I don’t know if even you are enough anymore. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it here.” John thought he would burst with the frustration and exhaustion he felt. He flung his arms out and cried, “I wish they’d just demote me to D-class, if that’s what it would take to get me out of this waking nightmare!”

“John, don’t say that.” Sherlock grabbed him by both arms and stopped his desperate flailing. “Listen. I think I’ve devised a means by which we can escape from U-62.”

“What are you talking about? Are you serious?”

“We won’t be able to do it right away, but soon, I can get us both out of here, without a trace.”

“Oh, God.” John wrapped his arms round Sherlock, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. “That’s all I want. I don’t care where I have to go, or how I have to live. I just want out of here.”

Sherlock pulled away and looked deeply into John’s eyes. John wondered if eye contact meant the same thing to the being that was underneath the human guise, or if it was only meant to produce the desired effect in John’s mind. He said, “Do you promise? Promise me you’ll get us both out. I don’t want to be without you.”

“I’ll do all I can,” Sherlock said.

Now John wanted to touch Sherlock, tenderly, to show his gratitude. A palm against Sherlock’s cheek. Holding one hand in both of his, kissing the fingertips. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how there _was_ no cheek, there _were_ no fingers.

“So, er, I was thinking,” he whispered. “I’m curious about your true form. I mean, if the answer is ‘No’ then that’s fine, but I was wondering if there was a way for me to…interact with it. To see you as you really are.”

Sherlock grinned mischievously. “Do you mean in a naughty way, Doctor Watson?”

John laughed and averted his eyes. He’d been caught. “Well…Can we?”

“It can be done. But it requires cooperation on your part.” Sherlock explained that, although all human senses were affected by the perception filter, it was key that the human in question perceived him by sight first. Once they “saw” a human, every sense was fooled. But if they perceived him with any other sense first, establishing the gestalt was more problematic. In order to perceive Sherlock’s true form, John would have to “unlearn” what he had seen.

The sash of John’s dressing gown was wide enough to serve as a blindfold. Sherlock instructed John to blindfold himself and lie on the bed. He explained that he was going to leave the room for a little while, and encouraged John to listen to some music, distract himself, and try not to think about Sherlock’s human appearance.

Sherlock was gone so long, John completely lost track of time. It might have been forty-five minutes, or three hours. It was at least long enough for him to stop shaking with anticipation; he even nodded off for a bit.

When Sherlock returned, he did not speak to John. John heard only the click of the door, and redoubled his effort to clear his mind of all thought, all intrusive expectations.

And then it began to happen. Something akin to being enveloped, but not smothered, by the petals of a silky, heavy, wet flower. John thought he was being submerged in a warm liquid, which seeped into every crevice. He could feel it in his nostrils and open mouth, though it did not interfere with his ability to breathe. And it knew no boundaries; he even felt it penetrating the tip of his urethra.

He reached out, and his hands detected soft, warm shapes. He wondered if perhaps he was touching anything that would be considered inappropriate or uncomfortable, but Sherlock did not protest. In fact, the silence was becoming eerie. Sherlock would speak when he was spoken to, but he did not moan or gasp. His skin did not slap against John’s. His movements did not make the bed creak.

“Sherlock. Sherlock? Am I inside you now?”

The answering voice was familiar, but seemed to come from all sides. “In a manner of speaking.”

Radiant pleasure bloomed in unexpected places. John tried three times before he managed to stutter out, “It feels so good. What can I do to make you feel good?”

“You’re doing it right now,” came the low, diffused reply.

Now he was being grasped at by indistinct appendages, but tenderly, soothingly. He could not even give in to the instinctual fear of the unknown; everything was just so sublime. Suggestions of solidity, gauzy whispers of limbs, caressed all the most sensitive parts of his body. He never knew he had so many pleasure spaces inside him, little corners that had never quite been filled, but now Sherlock was pouring into them. He gasped, “Is this what it’s always like? Why didn’t we do this from the beginning?”

“John, _shh_.”

To be softly devoured by this paranormal nimbus was both disturbing and voluptuous. John felt a tingling like gooseflesh, but all over his insides. He recognised his increasing arousal only through a diaphonous veil of tranquility, until he was filled to bursting with a quiet ecstasy, unleashing an unscreamed scream that was more cathartic, more purifying, than any violent noise he could have ever uttered. Minute continuous jerks wracking his body told him that he was coming. How could he be coming if everything was so slow and gentle? He cried silently into the blindfold.

John had been lying flat on his back the entire time, but when the cloud of Sherlock receded slightly, it was like collapsing from a great height, and he grunted like he’d been dropped. But then he basked in this new feeling, like emerging from a hard swim in the sea to lie in the sun for a spell. When he felt Sherlock’s form wrapping itself round him again, it felt lazy and comfortable.

“Did you enjoy it?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” was all John could say in response. Words like _amazing_ , _brilliant_ , and _fantastic_ seemed bland and inefficient.

Then he laughed, thinking playful, wicked thoughts. He was quite enthused about this new reality. Nothing that John would want to try sexually was off limits now, at least not on the basis of Sherlock “not being able to bend that way.” On the other hand, it was a hard compromise: no hard, lean muscles to squeeze him. No round bum to grab. No dark curls to stroke.

“Can we still do it the other way sometimes? You know, where I put your legs over my shoulders and show you what’s what?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “Whenever you like.”

 “Also: When I see you, why do I picture you in shirts that are just a bit too close-fitting?”

“Probably because you’re attracted to me or something.”

“Oh.”

After a little doze, John sat up and pulled the blindfold off, and there was Sherlock, just as he’d appeared the day they met. “I just realised something,” he said.

“Hm?”

“How long do you live? Are you immortal?”  
  
Sherlock put his arms behind his head. John watched his triceps flex under smooth, milky skin. “I’m not going anywhere, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“No, it’s just…if you are immortal, you’re going to watch me grow old and die. And then you’ll forget about me.”

Sherlock sat up to wrap both arms tightly around him and pull him back down onto the mattress. “That’s not going to happen,” he whispered in John’s ear.

“When are we going to leave?”

“Soon. I’m monitoring an object here, and when it’s been properly calibrated, we can go.”

“What is it? How long do you think it will take?”

“Shh. You’re like a child at Christmas. Go to sleep, John.”


	12. Chapter 12

John was certain he had never been down this corridor before. Sherlock explained that this sector of the facility housed some of U-62’s most hazardous objects and entities, almost none of whom were humanoid. It was unlikely that John would have been called upon to deal with them. 

There was a moment, though, when John realised that he had been down this way once before. What reminded him was the sight of a dark-skinned woman coming towards them, being led by two security guards. As they approached, and until they disappeared around the corner, she was prattling in a language John could not understand. The guards took turns saying, “Alright lady, alright.” She held a swaddled infant in her arms; when John passed her, he caught a glimpse of the bundle and saw that it was actually two infants, fused together. 

“Ah, so they found the twins that Eighty-Nine was going on about,” Sherlock said. “That’s good, then. Hard part’s over.” 

“Won’t the hard part be convincing her to willingly to burn her children alive?” 

“Likely not. She thinks they were fathered by the devil.” 

Sherlock led John to a nearly-featureless, concrete-walled corridor, where he stopped abruptly. He dropped the pack he was carrying, and from it produced a ring: two metal bands surrounding a piece of transparent purple glass.  

“We have to do this quickly,” he said. “It typically takes the maintenance staff twenty minutes to fix the closed-circuit cameras when I disable them, but sometimes they’re faster than that.” 

Sherlock ordered John to play close attention, and then proceeded to rattle off the instructions for using SCP-120, the teleportation device in the guise of a paddling pool. It wasn’t overly complicated; John listened carefully and then repeated back the procedure twice, to prove to Sherlock that he had it down. 

“Now,” Sherlock continued, “take a look at this wall.” He gestured to the long corridor which stretched before them, one side of which was devoid of doors or decoration. “When I put this ring on you, you must close your eyes and imagine this entire wall disappearing. Do you see how it is one solid slab that goes all the way to the junction? You must _will_ this entire wall to vanish.” 

John nodded, repressing a burst of inner laughter tinged with alarm; Sherlock was casually asking him to _make a wall disappear with the power of his mind_. But Sherlock wouldn’t give him such an order if it wasn’t possible for him to carry it out. 

“If you do this successfully, you will find that we are standing just five metres from the Paddling Pool teleporter. Today the dial is set for the Himalayas. Not ideal, but it is the destination that is the least hostile to human life. There is a small Foundation facility at the other end of the Himalayan portal, to intercept anything that comes through, but they won’t be expecting us, so we should be able to conceal ourselves in the nearby monastery, and from there make our way back to civilisation.” 

John shook his head. “I’m letting the wall thing go because I trust you know what you’re doing. But even if it does work, they’ll be looking for us. I’ve probably had a tracking device implanted in my brain, that they’ll detonate as soon as they realise I’ve gone.” 

“You don’t.” Sherlock tore John’s identification badge from his lab coat and threw it on the ground. “All you have to do is leave your badge behind, and they’ll assume you were destroyed by the [Shy Guy](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-096).” 

“Why would they think that?” 

“Because lots of personnel _will_ be. That is why you have to get rid of the entire wall.” Sherlock made two gestures with his arm, one to indicate something just on the other side of the wall, and one to indicate something far down the corridor. “The teleporter is here. The Shy Guy is down there. When the Shy Guy steps off the pressure-sensitive floor of his chamber, the alarm will sound and it will throw the entire facility into chaos. No one will notice us leaving, and when they finally do detect our absence, no one will suspect that we survived the Shy Guy.” 

“There must be a way leave undetected that doesn’t involve releasing one of the most relentlessly lethal creatures in existence.” 

“Possibly,” Sherlock admitted. “But isn’t this more fun?” 

The tingling in John’s spine said _Yes_. His mouth, on the other hand, said: “The Foundation can track your energy signature anywhere you go. You’ll still be a blip on someone’s monitor, somewhere.” 

“These people know about one ‘trick’ that I can do, but they don’t know all of them. I promise, you will remain safe if you just do as I say. And then we can live our lives together, however we want to.” 

John knew that Sherlock had lived by his wits before, in a world that he technically did not exist in, and assuming that the things he was saying now were true, he did not doubt that Sherlock could do it again, and help John do the same. He held out his hand, palm down. 

“With this ring,” Sherlock began, but then just smiled enigmatically as he placed the ring on the third finger of John’s hand. John closed his eyes and pictured the corridor. In his mind’s eye, he saw it crumbling, gone. But he heard nothing. 

Then he heard something. 

**ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. NINETY SIX HAS BROKEN CONTAINMENT. REPEAT. NINETY SIX HAS BROKEN CONTAINMENT. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. ALL PERSONNEL ARE TO EXECUTE PROTOCOL NINE-SIX-ONE. REPEAT. ALL PERSONNEL ARE TO EXECUTE PROTOCOL NINE-SIX-ONE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL**. 

John knew what Protocol 96-1 was. Everyone at U-62 did. They were drilled on it with the same frequency and gravity that a civilian office was drilled on a fire evacuation. Protocol 961 was, _Close your eyes and do not open them until the all-clear signal is given_. 

Without opening his eyes, John dropped to the ground and rolled to his right, through the space where the wall had been and into the teleporter’s containment chamber. He felt the presence of a guard, and heard a voice say, “What the fuck is going on? What happened to the fucking wall? Doctor Wats—OH SHIII—” 

There was a wet sound, and John’s face and hands were spattered with gobs of something warm. He curled up in the fetal position with his hands over his eyes. He could feel the presence of the Shy Guy, and heard its labored breathing. Its eerily human shriek nearly deafened him. Then he felt the diminishing vibrations of its thundering footsteps as, like falling dominoes, personnel who happened to be in the corridor – or who disregarded the announcement and wandered out of their labs to investigate – were felled by the rampaging creature. It was easy to discern by sound that the Shy Guy was moving further and further away from John, as the splattering of human organs and the crunch of concrete being torn through like tissue paper grew more distant. Even with such a short running start, its power and velocity allowed it to punch right through a metre of concrete in pursuit of its viewer. 

When he was certain that doing so was, for the moment, not dangerous, John opened his eyes. Nothing stood between him and the teleporter. A second guard cowered in a corner, and John knew he would not open his eyes for the world. He pulled the ring off his finger and pitched it as hard as he could down the rubble-strewn corridor. He was fearful of other powers it might manifest or attention it might draw. 

All there was to do was step into the paddling pool, and activate the device according to Sherlock’s instructions. 

But where was Sherlock? Not in his line of sight, and John still feared to try his luck by swiveling around to locate him. “Sherlock?” 

_Shit._ It was clear now, why Sherlock had given him instructions on how to operate the teleporter. _He knew he wasn’t going to be here to do it himself._

John debated whether to use it and hope that Sherlock had a secret plan for joining him in the mountains, or whether he was just…gone…entirely. The only thing he was certain of was that he did not want to leave Sherlock behind. 

Ultimately he decided that if Sherlock was still alive, he would find a way to get back to John no matter where he was, and it would be foolish to waste this chance. He remembered the pack, with the food and climbing gear, and took a step back to pick it up. 

But he heard a distant crash that stopped him in his tracks. Instinctively, he looked up. The Shy Guy had barreled through wall after wall, leaving a sequence of similarly-shaped holes in the concrete, like a cartoon. And through these holes, far in the distance, John glimpsed an enormous, pale being, seven feet tall and emaciated but still recognisably human. Its slack gaping maw hung to its chest, and from it came another scream, just like that of an ordinary man. 

The Shy Guy rushed right back through the tunnel he’d made, spraying bits of concrete as he clipped the edges of the holes he’d ripped. John knew this was the end. He closed his eyes again, and so never saw the flying chunk of concrete that made contact with his temple and knocked him out cold.


	13. Chapter 13

John intensely regretted waking up. It felt like demons were swinging sledgehammers against the inside of his skull, and when he clutched at his head, he discovered that it was excruciatingly painful on the outside as well. There was a bandage over his temple. 

He opened one eye, just to make sure he was alone, and when he confirmed that he was, he let out a self-pitying moan. 

_Am I ill? Did I get drunk? I don’t even remember. I can’t think._ The two-tone email notification chimed on the tablet next to his head, and it reverberated in his skull like Big Ben. John knew he’d have to summon the wherewithal to use the device, if only to dismiss the notification. 

There was a sticky-note on the tablet, upon which was written **You’ve got mail!**

With an unamused groan, John switched the tablet on. Immediately a window popped up that played a video. It was a nurse. Behind her, he could see his dressing gown hanging on the bathroom door. She must have recorded the message in his room whilst he was unconscious. 

“Hello, Doctor Watson! Remember me? Alma?” Ah yes, Alma. That cheerful one, that made him want to vomit with her indefatigable sunny disposition. Just who he wanted to hear right now. “I apologise for not being there in person when you woke up, but unfortunately the infirmary is pretty crowded with a lot of grievous injuries, after the Shy Guy’s containment breach and all. Any personnel who are not bleeding from their eyeballs are confined to quarters, and that means you. You just got a little bump on the noggin. Please come by the infirmary as soon as you’re up and walking around. We’ll give you a once-over, and then put you right back to work. You know, the bleeding eyeballs and all that. Bye for now!” 

He took a brief look at his email. How the hell had he received 478 new messages in fourteen hours? He read some of the subject lines: 

**0948 LIST OF SCP OBJECTS STILL MISSING**   
**1034 INTERIM SECURITY PROCEDURES**   
**1103 PROCEDURES FOR PERSONNEL EXPOSED TO SCP-…**   
**1111 UPDATED! LIST OF SCP OBJECTS STILL MISSING**   
**1244 4 TH FLOOR PLUMBING SHOULD BE RESTORED BY…**   
**1318 ALL STAFF MEETINGS CANCELLED UNTIL FURTH…**   
**1400 WARNING! LIVE WIRES ON FLOOR OF CORRIDOR 48…**   
**1501 2 ND UPDATE! LIST OF SCP OBJECTS STILL MISSING**   


Oh, right. Something had happened. Something really huge. 

John needed a piss, badly, but he sat at the edge of the bed with his eyes closed and did not move until he could remember what he had been doing when he was knocked out. 

 

*****

 

Some of the medical personnel were wearing full face shields; others were making do with protective eyewear in addition to their surgical masks. And he soon saw why: depending on the SCP that personnel had been exposed to, some of them were trying to claw the doctors’ faces off, some of them were trying to claw their own faces off, some were spitting or vomiting, and yes, there were indeed bleeding eyeballs. 

Senior staff were on the beds, junior staff were on the floor. D-class personnel were simply piled up; there was no one available to treat them, so even the ones with superficial injuries were terminated on sight, in case they had been exposed to something and had just not manifested any symptoms yet. 

There was no one to check John over. He’d walked right in after regaining consciousness and was told to get started. He stayed for sixteen hours. 

 

*****

 

By the time he left the medical centre, he could see that personnel were now walking the corridors, attending to business. That reassured John that at least the majority of the most dangerous objects must have been secured. Now was the time for the electricians, plumbers, and janitors to come out and make repairs, and time for the researchers to parse the new knowledge they’d inadvertently gained about the escaped objects. (Or at least, those which had been successfully contained again.) It was also time for John to visit one of the computer labs. 

When he tried to access the security camera recordings from two days before, he found that they had all been destroyed, because some of them contained images of the Shy Guy, and so were too dangerous to risk preserving anywhere. No one knew where the Shy Guy currently was. 

John thought it would be safe to access the ring’s file. Seeing as it was recently declared missing and was the subject of a massive search effort, lots of people had likely viewed the file; a log of his perusing it would not be regarded as terribly suspicious. 

**…When placed on a human being's finger,** he read, **[SCP-399](http://www.scp-wiki.net/scp-399) “activates.” Once fully active, the ring responds to mental commands from its wearer until removed, at which point it becomes inert until worn and re-energised.   
**

**In this mode, SCP-399 is capable of manipulating or reshaping objects within a 5m radius of the wearer at varying levels of complexity. SCP-399 draws in energy from its nearby environment with which to perform these functions. Minor tasks, such as causing a small object to levitate or turn itself inside out, require minor amounts of ambient energy which is primarily drawn from the surrounding atmosphere, causing a temperature drop. At finer scales, progressively more energy is necessary, and SCP-399 has been known to draw energy from electrical generators, nuclear reactors, and [DATA EXPUNGED] to complete the reaction. If there is not sufficient energy within SCP-399's range (approximately 300m) to perform the operation, SCP-399 will draw on its wearer and [DATA EXPUNGED]. More detailed operations also carry a greater chance of catastrophic failure resulting in [DATA EXPUNGED] of the wearer.  
**

**The extent of SCP-399's ability to alter objects within its range appears to be solely a function of energy available to it. With an adequate power source, manipulation of objects at the atomic or subatomic level appears to be possible (see Experiment Log 399)…**

John didn’t understand the implication, right away. He actually spent a few moments trying to figure out what power source the ring had drawn from, when he had told it to destroy the wall. Because he still stubbornly thought of Sherlock as a person, not a being of _pure energy_. When it hit him, his throat got tight and his eyes began to sting. 

So Sherlock was not coming back to him. He had never even intended to accompany John through the portal. He had sacrificed himself, and for what? So that John could get knocked unconscious and bleed on the floor, six feet from his objective. 

He found the **getsherlock.exe** shortcut on the desktop, and brought up the 3D map of U-62. If Sherlock were anywhere to be found, he would appear as a pulsing red dot. But nothing appeared on the map. He waited a full minute, then tried closing and opening the program again. Nothing. 

There was another shortcut on the desktop, to the SCP files that were safe for viewing by Level 3 personnel or higher (i.e., the ones who were authorised to use this particular lab). He clicked it, and scrolled down. The number “2218” was present, but with no link to click on.  


*****

 

John went to visit Jacob, the custodian of the hard copies of all of U-62’s files. John introduced himself, then explained, “I was just going to take a look at, er, Two Two One Eight’s file, and I couldn’t access it? In the lab?” 

Jacob swiveled in his chair and began tapping away at his computer. “Alrighty, let’s see if we can figure out why that is. You said Two Two One Eight…? Ah, I see now.” He leaned back and steepled his fingers. “The file isn’t in there anymore because Two Two One Eight’s been re-categorised as _Decommissioned_.” 

“Oh. Right. Of course.” 

Jacob pulled up the file on his screen and opened it. “Ah. Sherlock! I had no idea that was his number. Yeah, they changed his status when his energy signature disappeared.” 

John thanked him for his help and plodded back to his room. 

 

*****

 

John’s tablet bleeped at 3 AM. He didn’t mind; it hadn’t woken him up. He hadn’t been sleeping well the last few weeks. 

He rolled over and opened the tablet. Across his calendar was a gray band reading “8 AM: AUTOPSY.” He tapped this, and the full procedure was detailed: 

AUTOPSY - BIOLAB 10A 

LAB DOORS MUST REMAIN LOCKED AT ALL TIMES TO PREVENT UNTRAINED PERSONNEL ACCESS. BIOHAZARD INDICATOR LIGHT MUST BE ACTIVATED. 

FULL-BODY, AIR-SUPPLIED POSITIVE-PRESSURE SUITS TO BE WORN. BSL-4 SAFETY PROCEDURES AND DECONTAMINATION PROTOCOL HATCHET-77-Z TO BE OBSERVED THROUGHOUT. 

PROCEDURE WILL BE CONDUCTED ON SUBJECT D-439-97899. 

 

John arrived in the locker room at 7:45 in his street clothes. He showered and changed into scrubs, then proceeded to the suit room, where he donned a sky-blue biohazard suit with a wide, fog-resistant face-shield. He passed through the chemical decontamination shower and into the lab, where he connected his suit to an external air supply. The spiral air-hose was suspended from the ceiling, and followed him on a track as he went about his business in the lab. 

The lab featured an absolute bare-minimum of furnishings and equipment, and what equipment there was, was all stored away. Any container carelessly left out might be dropped; any scalpel left on a table could puncture a biosuit. There was not a speck of dust or a fingerprint to be found on any of the bright shiny surfaces under the harsh fluorescent lights. It served to emphasise the incongruity of the shapeless black body-bag on the stainless-steel table. 

John’s suit was equipped with a microphone, which automatically began recording when it detected sound. So he began talking. 

“This is Doctor John Watson’s autopsy report. I have before me the body of subject D-439-97899. According to Subject’s file, preliminary work has already been performed by the attendant. Subject is female, aged forty-three. Her current height cannot be determined, as she cannot be extricated from the fetal position; however, her recorded height on arrival at U-62 was one hundred and sixty-two centimetres. Subject’s weight is forty-five kilograms. I would like to state for the record that I was not provided with sufficient documentation related to this subject, only that she succumbed to a parasitic infestation. I understand the Foundation’s unique security demands, but I do _not_ appreciate their policy of assembly-line analysis of deceased subjects, deliberately infected or otherwise, and am hereby protesting my enforced ignorance.” 

John unzipped the body-bag, finding within a curled up mass that was vaguely recognisable as an adult human. Her body was riddled with thick cobwebs of bone. She was in absolute tatters, as bone spurs had grown rapidly and perforated her flesh in several places. Bones brought near to each other by her having curled up in the fetal position (such as her femur to her ribcage) had fused together, making it impossible for herself (in life) or Foundation personnel (after her death) to uncurl her body. 

“The ossification of subject’s fibrous tissue,” John said, “is consistent with _Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva_. However, FOP symptoms typically present by the age of ten, and Subject had no history of the disease when she arrived at U-62. Additionally, FOP presents initially and disproportionately in the dorsal, axial, cranial and proximal regions, but in this Subject’s case, the ossification appears equally distributed throughout the body.” 

Unable to place the subject on a body-block in the customary supine position, John experimented a bit before finally deciding to place her on her side. He discarded the body-bag and continued. 

“Now that I have removed the subject from the cadaver pouch, I can more clearly see that she is not simply curled in the fetal position, but appears to have taken on a nearly spherical shape. The spine is distorted beyond the typical convex curvature, and the ribcage has expanded significantly. I am unable to make the Y-incision in the trunk due to bone obstructions, so I will instead saw out a section of the ribcage in order to remove the internal organs.” 

John found the bone saw in a drawer below the table, and rather than cut up one side of the ribcage and down the other, improvised and cut a section out of one side. The section came off in one piece, as the ribs were fused together into a solid plate. 

He had been wondering how he would remove the internal organs, as the standard Rokitansky method was not possible. But when he lifted the ribs, he found there was no need to devise an alternative: most of the internal organs were gone. Those that remained were unrecognisable. John chose the most prominent one, which still retained some similarities to a stomach, to make the first incision. 

The moment the tip of his scalpel touched the tissue, it split open. The bodies of thousands of tiny insects burst from the incision and poured into the trunk cavity. John dropped the scalpel and recoiled, uttering the names of several religious figures. He knocked his hip against the corner of the adjacent exam table, though he hardly felt it, as the sight before him proved particularly compelling. 

John steadied himself, then watched the mound of insect bodies for two full minutes, waiting for movement. There was none. Whatever sort of colony he had unwittingly unleashed, it was quite dead. 

“ _Jesus fuck me Christ what in God’s name is this_ ,” John muttered, then tried to explain a little more clearly, for posterity’s sake, what had just happened. As he did this, he reached back into the ribcage with both hands and scooped out as much of the insect clutter as he was able. The organ he’d cut into had deflated, and a nearby erstwhile organ now presented itself. This time John palpated it with the pick-ups first. It felt spongy, but not over-full. 

His hand was steady as he brought the scalpel close. This time, when he pricked the surface, only a dribble of fluid appeared. He cut deeper, and found that the organ now housed a semi-solid mass that did not resemble digested food matter at any stage that it might be found in the human body. He took a sample and narrated the task. 

He had no idea what the wisest next step would be, so he put the scalpel down and tried to think of how Sherlock would proceed. Well, first of all, Sherlock would have already come up with ten theories about what had happened to this person. He had watched Sherlock work often enough; now it was time to apply those methods. 

“The parasite that the subject was infected with is an insect,” John said as he held the body of one with a pair of tweezers and examined it. “Each specimen has three body segments, three pairs of legs, two antennae, and a chitinous exoskeleton. So far, I have observed two slightly different varieties; these are perhaps workers and drones, respectively. 

“I know that insect colonies have a queen, who may travel some distance to establish a new colony, and when this happens non-essential members of the old colony will die. If I had to make a guess at this point, I would say that is what happened here. It appears that the subject hosted a colony. That may explain the unrecognizable liquefied matter found in the subject’s abdomen. It could be some sort of nutritive slurry that fed the colony. I cannot yet determine whether the colony died because the host died, or vice versa.” 

The third organ, the only one remaining, was filled with jelly-like spheres. John watched them carefully for a long while, to assure that they were not moving, before proceeding. The eggs were too tiny for a standard scalpel incision to reveal anything meaningful. 

“I will now attempt to remove the brain,” John said into the microphone. (In the past, he would invariably have said “I am now removing the brain.”) 

John took up a body-block and placed it under the petrified neck of the cadaver, so that he could more easily get at the skull from all angles. Bone spurs had protruded and torn away the flesh; rather than making an incision and peeling it back, he only had to scrape away the few tattered remnants of scalp. He used a Stryker saw to cut around the equator of the cranium. As he lifted the calvarium off, the sound and the appearance reminded him, as it always did, of an anatomy professor’s quip in his first year of medical school: _You’ve got two empty ‘alves of coconut and you’re bangin’ ‘em together!_ The thought did not bring a wry smile to his face this time. 

“The brain is only partially present,” John said, and then was quiet for some time whilst he had a closer look. Finally, he went on: “If the insects consumed it, they did it in a very logical way: the frontal lobe is entirely gone, the temporal lobe is partially missing. The occipital and parietal lobes are mostly present, and the brain stem is entirely intact. It was as if they knew which parts of the brain were most essential for their host to continue living, and saved those for last.” 

Before John removed the remaining portions of the brain, he came round the table with the intention of seeing to what extent the insects had devoured the soft tissue of the head and face. It might provide a clue as to the routes the insects took whilst inhabiting the subject’s body.  

He used the “bread knife” to pry the jaw open. The tongue was gone, along with much of the soft palate. In the absence of the tongue, John could see, with his penlight, all the way down to the larynx and vocal chords (also demolished). He lifted the eyelids. To his surprise, the eyeballs remained, and appeared completely intact. He shone his penlight into one eye, to examine the surrounding soft tissue. 

The eye followed the beam. 

John dropped the penlight. “Oh, fuck, _fuck fuck fuck_ ,” he hissed, and backed away. He surveyed the mangled, desiccated being before him, and determined that yes, there was a chance that his mind was not just playing tricks on him. He closed in on the body again, lifting each eyelid in turn and confirming that both eyes followed his penlight as it moved. 

“God fucking damnit,” he shouted, and flung the penlight across the room. “This autopsy is over,” he said calmly into the microphone. “In fact, as I have just discovered, this was technically not an autopsy to begin with.” He left everything where it lay, tearing the air hose from his suit and storming out of the lab.

 

*****

 

John’s first stop was crashing a meeting of the Department Administrators. He ignored the guard posted outside the door and walked straight in, still wearing his sweat-soaked scrubs. “I just wanted to inform you gentleman personally,” he said, “that there is a Class D in Biolab Ten A that needs to be euthanised. So, you might want to send someone down. Someone who is not me.” 

Administrator Burnett looked aghast. “There’s a Class D that needs to be euthanised and you left them in a Level Four Biolab?” 

“Oh believe me,” John said. “She’s not going anywhere.” 

 

*****

 

Things still weren’t quite good as new down on the fourth floor. Several corridors were screened off with hanging canvas from floor to ceiling. Others only had yellow caution tape strung across them. John had no reason to pass by here; it was not on the route between the biolab and his room. But here was the chamber that had contained the paddling-pool teleporter. John had returned, like a jilted lover who haunted that little café near the park, in the hopes of catching one more glimpse of the one that got away. 

Standing there, filthy, exhausted and miserable, peering into the now-empty containment chamber, he suddenly thought: what if Sherlock had left? What if he’d never even planned to get John out? What if he’d found a way to escape himself, but could not work John into it, and so had merely given John one last cheap thrill, like a goodbye kiss? Jolts of fear and dread shot up his spine, and he tried to banish the thought. _No, Sherlock would not do that._ But even after all the time they had spent together, John had to admit that he had no idea what Sherlock was capable of. 

Down the corridor, John thought he saw something poking out from under a heap of smashed concrete. He felt oddly compelled to get a closer look, so he blithely lifted the caution tape and ducked under it. He walked round the pile of rubble, examining it from the far side, and then was certain that he had found a leg. A human leg. 

John stared at it, mesmerised, like when he would see a word repeated too many times on a page and it lost all meaning. “That’s my leg,” he said, to no one. He grabbed it by the ankle and dragged it from beneath the rubble. It was a complete human leg, pinky toe to femur, bones and muscle and skin. “This is my leg. I’ve got to…” He dropped it back into the rubble and patted his pockets, only to find he didn’t have any, being only in his scrubs. Shit. He wasn’t carrying anything. 

John ran to the T-junction of the corridor. “Guard? Hello?” 

A security guard came running down the corridor. “What is it, Doctor?” 

“Guards carry knives, don’t they?” 

The guard’s hand went to the sheathed knife on his belt, but he hesitated. There was no reason why Doctor Watson should be on that side of the caution tape. And the fact that he was down here in scrubs was particularly suspicious. “Well, yes, but--” 

“Give me yours.” 

On the other hand, the guard thought, Doctor Watson _was_ O-23. And a very level-headed chap, when not under the influence of that maniac he used to raise hell with. The guard dutifully handed over his knife, handle first. John said, “Cheers. My leg is just over there, you see, and I’ve got to put it back on.” He unsheathed the knife. 

The guard bit his lip, knowing he’d just made a terrible mistake. He pressed the button on his walkie-talkie to open the frequency. John was now using the knife to cut the leg of his trousers off, about halfway up his thigh. He was in such a hurry, he sliced through some flesh, as well, but nothing too deep. It was fine. 

Without taking his eyes off John, the guard said into the walkie-talkie, “I’ve got a possible Code Four at the D junct--Doctor, what are you doing?” 

“My leg is over there.” John nodded casually over his shoulder. The guard saw nothing but concrete rubble. “I’ve got to put it back on. I just need a…oh, here we are.” He tore a strip of caution tape from where it hung across the junction. He wrapped it round his thigh and pulled it tight, as if her were making a tourniquet. He looked at the knife again, seemingly incognisant of the wounds he’d already inflicted. “It’ll have to do,” he muttered, and sliced into this quadricep. 

The guard shouted into his walkie-talkie. “Code Four! I’ve got a Code Four at the D junction of twenty-three!” He chopped John’s arm with the blade of his hand, which stunned it and made John drop the knife. John immediately reached to pick it up, which proved difficult, as his hand was slippery with blood. “No, I have to do this! It’s my leg!” 

“CODE FOUR!” The guard shouted again as he grabbed John under the armpits, dragging him away from the fallen weapon. John continued to scramble for the knife as two more guards came barreling round the corner. 

John managed to slip free, but had cut his leg up too badly; the moment he put weight on it, he stumbled. Two of the guards grabbed him by the arms and ankles, and he was hauled down the corridor. When he struggled too hard, the third guard brandished a hypodermic needle.

 

*****

 

John woke up in the infirmary. He tried to sit up, but he was strapped securely to the bed by the wrists and ankles, with an additional restraint over his chest. With some effort, he could lift his head enough to see that he was in a hospital gown, and the wounds in his thigh were dressed. 

The face of Doctor de la Rosa loomed over him. “Doctor Watson,” she said, with a tight smile. “Welcome back. Just keep calm. You’re in the fourth floor infirmary and you’re going to be fine. You’ve injured your leg, but you’ll recover.” 

“My leg,” John said under his breath. “My leg.” 

“You’ve just had a little encounter with [Nineteen Ninety-Three](http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1993), is all. Tricky one, Nineteen Ninety-Three is. Not a good year, either. I worshipped Joey Lawrence for some reason, and you should have _seen_ my hair.” 

John let his head fall back on the pillow, and smiled weakly. “That’s nothing,” he said. “Have you ever heard of something called Madchester?” Her blank look told him to not bother making any more region-specific jokes. “So when can I get out of these leather straps?” 

“Hopefully soon. It’s standard procedure, for people exposed to this kind of cognitohazard. You were compelled to amputate your own leg and replace it with Nineteen Ninety-Three.” 

“Was I? Well, lucky for me, I’m fine now. Don’t feel the urge to amputate anything at all.” 

“Yes, that was what you said the last two times.” 

“The what?” 

“Doctor Watson, we’ve had to administer sedatives twice and Class A amnesiacs three times since you arrived in the infirmary. The first time we removed your restraints, you limped right out into the corridor in your gown and continued looking for Nineteen Ninety-Three. The second time, you convinced an orderly to just let you have one hand free, and you grabbed a scalpel and tried to amputate your leg again.” 

John knew it was little use trying to remember, but he gave it a go. He closed his eyes, shutting out the bright overhead lights. “You haven’t terminated me, so there must be a cure.” 

“We don’t know that, yet. So far all the testing done with Nineteen Ninety-Three has been with D-class personnel. There hasn’t been a lot of effort put into a cure, just containment. But now we have a valued staff member to contend with, and you can help us. We would like to administer a Class B retrograde amnesiac. Class A is obviously not effective, but they’re pretty weak. It’s almost more akin to a sedative than an amnesiac. Plus, it’s been several hours now since your exposure, far past a Class A’s window of effectiveness. But with a Class B, you should forget entirely that you ever came in contact with Nineteen Ninety-Three. If it cures you, it can help us determine the nature of the cognitohazard: what parts of the brain it affects, and how we might use amnesiacs to save victims of other cognitohazards.” 

“Sounds good. So when can we get started? These straps are starting to chafe.” 

“It is my duty to warn you: administration of a Class B will not just erase your interaction with Nineteen Ninety-Three. It is exponentially more powerful than a Class A. The treatment will wipe out several months. You’ll retain all your skills and knowledge, of course. But the majority of your time at U-62 will be gone. You’ll have to take a few week’s leave, paid of course, so you can reorient yourself.” 

John’s stomach flipped. “So…I won’t remember Sherlock anymore.” 

Doctor de la Rosa gave him a puzzled look. “Sherlock? Oh, that’s right. Ha, I’d nearly forgotten about him. You and he were friends, weren’t you?” 

John’s memories of Sherlock were the only comfort he had left, in the waking nightmare he was living. Sometimes he even dreamed of those irreverent lectures and lunatic experiments, dreams that were untainted by the knowledge that he could never recapture that demented joy. And he still fantasised about the piercing gaze of a lover with no eyes, who could touch him with no hands. And underneath every waking moment was the tiny hope, the imperceptible, infinitesimal, atomic hope, that one day Sherlock would return to him. 

But John could not deny that the knowledge that there was so much more excitement to be had in this facility than was offered to him through official channels was painful. Sooner or later, his dissatisfaction was certain to result in either his endangering the facility by pursuing something that Sherlock would have pursued, but without Sherlock’s intellect and skill, or in a desperate, self-destructive act far more dismal and final. 

It was then that he knew that his unfounded, misguided hope and sore memories were no less destructive than his exposure to SCP-1993. It would be best to just forget Sherlock ever existed, and go on with his life here not knowing there was any better path for him. 

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s do this now.” 

“Good choice,” Doctor de la Rosa said. “Might as well give it a shot, right? No pun intended! All you were going to be doing anyway was trying to mutilate yourself until you went into a panic-induced coma. Or until someone had to shoot you.” She chuckled. “Heh heh. Sorry, little dark humor, there.” 

“Right.” 

A nurse appeared with a syringe. He felt the cold wet antiseptic cloth and the subsequent prick of the needle as Doctor de la Rosa patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll take a little nap, and when you wake up, all this will be over.” 

_I should be so lucky_ , he thought, as he watched the nurse press on the plunger.


	14. Chapter 14

The file spoke the truth: the ring that Sherlock had placed on John’s hand could deplete a nuclear reactor. But a nuclear reactor was nothing compared to Sherlock. Admittedly, he was somewhat diminished, which was why John did not perceive him. But he was still there, and if he stuck close to John, he could join him in the teleporter. It was just a matter of John not giving into sentiment, being wise enough to enter the teleporter despite Sherlock’s apparent absence.

As John turned to pick up the pack, Sherlock said _Don’t look up, don’t look up_. But John could not hear him.

The Shy Guy froze, looked straight back at John, then turned and charged back down the path he had tunneled out, spraying bits of concrete as he went.

The list of nearby SCP objects unrolled in Sherlock’s mind like a scroll. There had to be one that would enable him to save John in the next four seconds. Yes! Sherlock knew that at the end of the corridor was the containment room for an object that could have done away with the Shy Guy years ago, if only anyone had had the courage to do so.

Tiny and diminished though he was, Sherlock placed himself between John and the Shy Guy, looking right at it. As he was closer to it than John, it shifted his attention to him. How fortunate, that he was a sufficiently substantial entity that looking at it would get its attention. Sherlock swept down the corridor, luring it with him and away from John once more.

Sherlock had the briefest moment to consider that in retrospect, unleashing the Shy Guy might not have been a wise decision. Not that that insight was helpful at this point.

At the end of the corridor, in an unassuming little room with no special guards, no Faraday cage, no acid baths (and currently, no fourth wall), was the Hungry Bag. It sat there unzipped, and the tiny bundle of fog and light distortion that was Sherlock dropped inside. The last thing he perceived in that dimension was the Shy Guy’s trajectory. To his satisfaction, it intended to follow him, regardless of the size disparity, which Sherlock knew was irrelevant anyway.

Sherlock wished, then, that he hadn’t procrastinated about asking John to draw a portrait of him. Now he would never know what John saw when he looked at him. He didn’t know why that mattered to him, but it did.  
  
  
  
 **FIN.**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Get Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/976372) by [rare_colours](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rare_colours/pseuds/rare_colours)




End file.
